How well I remember the disdainful glances of those matronly ladies who seemed to spend more time tut-tutting at the behaviour of reluctant teenage church attendees like myself than actually praying.
MRS PARKER
She sits in 1960 in a 1950s hat,
her pale face disapproving of who knows whom or what,
a purse-lipped Presbyterian with stern, reproving eyes
and dark familiar handbag close beside her like a cat.
She glowers at the Minister, berobed in treacle-black,
who speaks of ancient prophets and which son each begat.
She listens like a predator
for whispered, idle chat
from restive voices one pew back,
young Sunday conscripts trapped
with shuffle-feet and sniggers
and cellophane unwrapped.
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