I've laid the shovel down
And light a candle,
Though I hardly remember why.

I've grieved for the niches
Of para-pschology,
And a general spirituality.
The out-of-body vacations,
The near death revelations.

I pine for the oaken smell
Of pews in a row;
The creak of ancient kneelers,
A red bright sanctuary light.

I am pagan,
Meditating in a copse.