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The Old Church Revisited
The space is smaller
than what was measured by memory,
the stained glass windows much less
vibrant compared to what glowed
brightly in the light of back then.
The pews have been worn down
to bare wood by sliding bums
and where arms have rested
or fidgeted in prayer. I genuflect,
prompted by some remnant of habit,
out of a sense of respect,
then take a seat.
Peeling paint sheets the walls
not in wear, but in neglect. In places
an amber sheen coats where candle
smoke has left a nicotine like stain
after decades of petitions.
I wonder how many were fulfilled.
The brass candle rack has a two
stubs that sit like the last
remaining teeth in empty gums.
The white marble altar that once
seemed to soar to a height scraping
the very hem of heaven now could be
scaled by a modest ladder.
Six years old,
I stood before it in terror. Hidden away
within its chambers behind golden doors
there was a God who could send me
to hell. I had nowhere to hide.
Surely, no God would want
to be here now in such a place.
Everything in this building speaks
of an absence, a sad vacancy
that was once filled with a weighted
presence whether real or imagined.
There are no flowers to sweeten the air
or whispered prayers
from a visiting soul to sanctify the quiet.
And yet there are relics here,
echoes that bypass the ear,
shadows that seem to reach up
out of the silence like extended hands
pulling at my mind. I am not sure
whether it is the clutch
of the drowning wanting to be saved
or the other way around.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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