by Marilyn Braendeholm
photograph (c) Marilyn Braendeholm
I haven’t been here for a while, not since
I was a haughty teen and the priest said
we’d all go to hell no matter what path
we chose. What’s the point, I thought –
no matter what remedials I took, I was
headed for clouds of sulphurs
and an afterlife akin to a lit matchstick.
So anyway, as I was saying, or rather
writing since that’s what I’m doing,
I haven’t been here for a while, and I’m
not ashamed to say that I’ve rather missed
the old place. The smell of damp sandstone
that pinches at your nostrils, and those wooden
pews buffed to a miraculous shine, which
is what comes from 500-years of arses
swiping their way along its considerable
burnish length – slowly sliding in but
sliding out faster, fidgeting and squirming,
broad bums swish-swiping about and each
movement resurrecting a high gloss shine
on these leaf-carved planks of oak. Yes.
Much to my surprise, I’ve missed my
Sunday mornings at our old parish church.
Doubt that I’ll tell anyone that though;
might be a while ‘til I return again.