Poem and photo by Neil Donnelly
In the 1950’s it seemed to go on
for hours and every seat was filled
as they thundered down at us from
the pulpit against drink, mortal sin,
and adultery, which always sounded
quite exciting.
*
She was sometimes at this mass
with her mother, her bicycle
parked behind the thick grey stone
holy water font. I’m trying to co-ordinate
my emergence from the Church with
hers, but she stops to talk to neighbours.
*
Stephen’s Day in the Cathedral
and the Priest flies through it in
15 minutes; the yellow pack
version, someone says; plain
wrapper, no frills or decoration,
not even the obligatory
‘Peace handshake’.
*
Twenty people present, but in
schooldays, standing room only,
where countrymen with a quick
finger flutter, signed their necks,
then out. In the Cathedral doorway,
waiting for the rain to ease, and the man
whose anniversary it was, had not even
been mentioned by the fastest priest alive.
*
He had other churches to go to,
other masses to fly through….