Notes From a Church

One of mine –

Of ours perhaps –

Left last week;

But, on the old hill,

With sweeping views

Down to the port

Where big ships wait

To take us further,

Another – if its possible,

Drew closer.

While I’m reminded of a third

(Something special in that number,

That magic-wise company)

In a rich eastern temple

Where burn candles real

And a ghost sends me

Notes from a church.

Meanwhile our October

Becomes my November

And I watch my breaths

Quietly disappear.


He’s choppin’ at the strings

With intelligent-blues hands

Swappin’ up words ’bout

Love, the Devil and autumn

But beneath all the fury –

Raised voice, clenched fist;

Beyond the witch-gypsy mask

He still picks vegetables for

The local church harvest.