I went cycling the other week and visited a church
Once I made was sure there was nothing going on, I had a look about, run my hand around the font. There was some little books, flowers, cut for Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff up at the holy end and a tense, musty, unignorable silence, brewed God knows how long ago.

I had a look at the verses, and had a snigger, which echoed back at me, then left an Irish coin in the donation box (I'm a famous tightwad).

But it all made me ponder what it means? Why do I bother coming? I mean, what remains when disbelief has gone?

I wondered who will be the last to seek the church for what it was; a Xmas tourist, or an architcture fan? Or someone like me, bored and ignorant, tending to visit churches because they are suitable places to think about births, deaths and marraiges. In fact, I think churches are really serious places, where our compulsions get dressed up as destinies. Which seems like a good thing, because if you go see them you get a good reminder of all the dead that lie round.

Philip Larkin
(McChinaman banned, Sun 22 Mar 2009, 11:16, 2 replies)

Argh!
School memories!

Good poem though.
(sparkly_penguin, Sun 22 Mar 2009, 20:29, closed)

I wondered if anyone would get it
You win the prize!
(McChinaman banned, Mon 23 Mar 2009, 9:11, closed)