Worship
Twilight's blessing; soft shades kiss
the meadowlands adrift in blissful silence.
Windows glow like welcome beacons
hailing ships on storm-toss'd oceans
sailing safe to harbor's rest, as villagers
repose, so soon to sleep.
At the edge of town the church is still.
Strangled gravestones mark in mute remembrance
struggles of an age gone by.
Ivied walls and crumbling steeple,
signs of venerable decay, where kinfolk meet
to greet their Gods and beg forgiveness
for their many indiscretions.
A haven for the wealthy and the ne'er-do-well alike,
it welcomes differences of race and creed.
All worship embraced in its sheltered precincts,
all sinners accepted according to need.
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