The pub is dead
Just like the chapel is dead
The church is no longer the lifeblood
Or the focus of the community
The church is now devoid of ordinary folk
No more local festivals
No more ever-caring parishioners
Yet still the cold moves in on the church
As so too do the familiar delusions
But Joe’s precious time
Right now
Was away from his cold village
Although it was not
Not too too far away
He walked in the filtered sunlit woods
Wandered aside the splashing streams
He loved the noise of life’s quiet places
He had a pixies touch on the footpaths
He stroked the stone walls
Just as if they were female sculptures
OK there were no longer any potato fields...
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