THE HOUND OF HEAVEN

I've been tinkering with this poem, which I wrote two or three years ago, and believe this to be the final version but, as any writer knows, there's always the potential for a 'better' final version so I'm allowing myself the option to revise it yet again one day.

The post's title is taken from the famous poem by Francis Thompson.

REMEMBRANCE

        

I enter the stone church, breathe in

damp air, the smell of old hymnbooks,

a reek of unforgiven sin.

Nothing has changed. To me it looks

uncompromising and austere, 

this place that once filled me with fear.

The pulpit, high, ornate and dark, 

seems somehow less imposing now

than once it did. The pews are stark,

wherein we muttered prayer and vow,

with humble, penitent display,

while wishing drab Sundays away.

I feel no kinship with the men

who bowed their heads with reverence:

the awesome God they worshipped then

now seems an olden-times pretence

and, even as a brainwashed child,

I doubted Jesus, meek and mild.

The church is cold. Daylight, outside,

spills in, illuminates stained-glass.

Biblical tales, once learned with pride

in mandatory Scripture class,

are pictured there: the haloed head

of Christ with wine and broken bread,

the Cross, the Pentecostal flame.

No fire descends, although I stand

beneath the stained-glass window frame:

no gift of tongues, no stern command,

arcane, unfolding like a scroll,

uplifts me, captivates my soul. 

The wooden pew-seat pains my back

I close my eyes and see us then,

three children sitting, shoulders slack,

our mother, fragile as a wren,

and father, patriarchal, stern,

the preacher swearing we would burn.

The terror that assailed me then

is absent now. The silent space

is restful as I read again

familiar hymnal words of grace

that contradict the preacher’s lies,

then I return the book and rise.

Outside, old graves, in disrepair,

record, in stone, the parish dead.

At Rest, the graven words declare,

Here lies. I leave the names unread.

Ignoring epitaphs and dates

I step out through the churchyard gates.

An altered sky foreshadows rain.

Beyond the spire, impassive, grey,

flies, heavenward, a silver plane

as I leave, hurrying away,

a scarf wrapped tight around my throat,

a sinner in an overcoat.