Tuesday, 9 February 2010
re POEM 17
on Station Road,
beside dark police station, overlooking
what was once the Village Green.
night lights shine over last rites
of ebbing Anglican persuasion;
mimicking a bowl of heaven’s honey
albeit laced with poison -
the poison of apathy packaged
as interdependence and self-preservation
in the vein of the tall steeple, gabled porch,
medieval Gothic flourishes glowering at me.
It’s a strange composition in the midst
of cut-and-paste Pizza shops surrounded by layers
of rubbish spilling over sidewalks, a sense of pride lost
in this place which thrived on coal and swine
in a not too distant past. ‘Where have all
the parishioners gone?’ I ask the Evening Light.
‘Retreated to the cellars’ is the reply.