SHELTER FROM THE STORM

Brought up in god-fearing, post-war Northern Ireland, I was force-fed a fearsome brand of stern Christianity.
Whilst I've managed to recover from that childhood trauma, I still find myself drawn to churches and cathedrals when on holiday, although, nowadays, as a sightseer rather than a worshipper. 

CATHEDRAL

In from the cutting wind and rain
it is less raw and yet the chill 
is evident and I remain
bone-cold and wet. I wait until
my eyes adjust, then look about
this edifice of the Devout.
It truly is a splendid sight:
a massive pulpit dominates,
vast windows welcome in the light,
on wall-plaques are recorded dates
whilst on the floor, in marble set,
are names of earl and baronet.
The great, the godly, in this place
have their memorials which tell
that they rest in a state of grace
while lesser mortals burn in Hell.
Such privilege seems so unfair:
in life, they had the lion’s share.
The lesser mortals, father, son,
laid scaffolding against the sky,
transported great stones, one by one,
a rich and bounteous supply:
a ragged, noisy, oathsome crew
yet slowly the cathedral grew.
I feel no kinship with the men
who built this place of reverence.
The awesome god, they worshipped then,
now seems an olden-times pretence
and all the lavish grandeur here
was built in consequence of fear
so, I retreat to brave the cold.
Agnostic, I doubt more each day:
to faith, I cannot be cajoled
so I leave, hurrying away,
a scarf wrapped tight around my throat,
a sinner in an overcoat.