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Church Sunday
Sunday.
In the long morning shadows of the Church Patio,
You can feel the heat gathering strength,
Like an old fashioned fighter winding into a huge round-house uppercut.
In tiny cliques,
The children, of the children, of the children who came here long ago,
Stand and chat
about the fund drive for the new Church computer,
and the catering for the coming picnic.
In quiet corners, individual choir members sip coffee,
And worry demon phrases from the Anthem.
And the Children
Of the children, of the children, of the children,
Careen in cacophonous anarchy.
Waiting to be called to learn about
Baby Moses and
Baby Jesus.
And the doors open,
Expelling the 'Eight O'clockers' into the heat.
And the children, of the children, of the children,
Stream into the sanctuary of the Sanctuary.
They pass like hordes of pedestrians,
Bustling across an intersection from opposing sides,
When the light says 'WALK'.
With barely a notice.
Like smoke colliding with fog.
They sit in cooled church air,
In jogging shorts and designer sneakers.
Next to vague ghosts of
The parents, of the parents, of the parents,
Who sit,
better arrayed,
Cooling themselves with fans of cardboard
on sticks.
The choir,
All guitars and tambourines,
Stands next to the vestigial organ,
And, renders, with electric enthusiasm,
the Processional.
And the children, of the children, of the children,
Recite timeless prayers,
And nod through timeworn sermons,
And meditate on the week to come,
And thank God that
some things never change.
Sunday Morning -...
Richard Redgrave
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