Thought for the Week: Silent worship?
'Silent worship?' by Char March
The room breathes in. And out. Hands
find a variety of poses. There is a pair
of sandals with socks, a pair without.
Two fine beards.
Malcolm stands, tries to find words
about calm. Sits. A stomach growls.
Lunch beckons, until we remember
to think of God.
Then Brian-next-door rips his strimmer
into life, attacks his garden. Our air
is thrashed by his huge and angry bee.
It band-saws
through any hope of thought;
accelerates into octaves of war.
One of the beards coughs,
just a little.
Brian shudders into the long grass
of our bookcase. He splinters buzz
and splutter round every chair,
is furious under the table.
Then, he cuts the bee’s chainsaw.
Rushes out.
In the sudden oxygen of silence
hands are slightly rearranged.
We hear Brian’s water-feature
resurface.
And then he’s back, gouging
our carpet tiles with his grass rake,
shaking the bee back to fury,
stumbling
into the shrubbery of our curtains –
the bee stuttering a deeper,
happier note.
This poem was written following a visit to Roundhay Meeting in Leeds.
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