By John Grey
Dark trees bend toward
each other's reaching limbs,
so that the trail beneath
is like the aisle of church
with distant moonlight
as its pale-yellow altar.
No stations of the cross though,
merely a hooting barn owl in the eaves
and fieldmice darting in and out
of thick-brush pews.
With each step, I wonder
if I'm about to witness
a modern-day rewrite
of Eliot's Murder In The Cathedral.
But the owl, disturbed by my presence,
lifts off in one smooth motion,
flies in search of more secular fare
and the rodents, mistaking me for a predator,
scurry back into their holes.
As always, my presence in a church
disrupts the natural order.
No, the ceiling doesn't collapse.
But wind picks up,
rustles the makeshift rooftop.
About the Author:
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Shift, River And South and Flights. Latest books, Bittersweet, Subject Matters and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon. Work upcoming inLevitate, Writer’s Block and Trampoline.