Tuesday, 9 February 2010

re POEM 17

Swinton church

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.

Catherine Mark

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