I wandered late, but I was not alone:
The Night walked with me
Like a black hound
With eyes of rainwater-starlight,
And breath in misty plumes.
The church loomed, hulking, in the dark,
For in my fragility I sought some solace there-
To be alone in a place where faith rang like music,
Perhaps the echoes of believers would seep into me
And slow my pulse
And lend me a scrap of comfort that I didn't own...
There is something sacred about a silent place
In which hundreds of people have sat and allowed themselves
To feel,
And I believe in that, if not in God.
Halfway to tears, I tried the door
But it was locked.
And the belated certainty that it always had been
Settled over me like a lead blanket,
And I sat, shivering, on the steps.
And my companion-
Now a hot, solid form of shifting bones and sinew-
Whined his sympathies,
Curled around me
And laid his massive head
Upon my knee.
(Yes, the black dog is a folklore reference to Hellhounds.)