The road rises and falls on its way to a white church in a field of green.
It is an old church with a belfry and no bell, and the slender windows reach to the sky.
There are two great doors, heavenly blue, the paint falling, and locked.
The secrets are kept.
I cannot feel the sheen of the pews, or look for peace through leaded windows,
Stand before the altar and weep for my sins and losses, or feel the imprint of The Bible black.
So I stand on the kept lawn in pale winter sunlight and watch as the light moves;
Read the dates on the stones in the churchyard and touch the lichen and wonder why, here
There are just nine graves, angled to the south where the huddled sheep are preparing for winter’s cold;
Where there are belts of pines and tall oaks and the roll of the sea and the bones of a man from Kent