I sit at the back
near the oak door with black iron eyes
so I can slip the sepulchral semi-dusk
of morning service
at the first quivering croak
of the organ’s final refrain,
and turn my face, brazen, to the sun,
June air heavy and hay-sweet.
Here the cross-stitch kneelers are faded and thin.
Dust motes drift, a golden mist
where a stray day-beam knifes the stone-cooled gloom.
Those purse-mouthed women of the dry-cough flock
crane their hens’ necks round to stare my way
Sunday lace fluttering with offended virtue.
I gaze at the flowers,their vibrancy and wanton softness
stuffed into prettiness by their withered hands.
Far away in front you stand
alongside her in the allotted pew,
back of your neck under black curls
still red from the blood-rush of seeing me.
I remember you coloured up the same way
your face between my legs,
and I close my eyes
in my own kind of prayer…
And with something like a sigh
a rose surrenders her satiny weight;
Scarlet petals drop to grey flagstones
In a silent explosion.
~ Polly Oliver 2022
Photo by Ylanite Koppens