The church is sheltered by the trees
where splintered shards of crisp light lance
the dust which floats across the aisle -
through summer air I watch it dance.

My footsteps tremble here beneath
the knowing portraits’ saintly gaze
as abbots and apostles let
me pass them by in evening haze.

Between the branches, through the glass,
burst wilting reds and dazzling blues!
The creaking steps of leather boots
move through the crumbling, wooden pews.

Past David and the saint of kings,
the altar’s where I pause to stand;
a stone archangel greets me there -
I reach to touch his outstretched hand.

Towards the font, I cast a glance;
the pulpit flakes its faded paint.
I draw a breath of stifling air
surrounded by the watchful saints.

The church is sheltered by the trees,
and veiled from all but splintered heat
as Michael hears a groaning pew,
and there I wait upon the seat.