Every Seven Days

I wait in the hallway
with the choir,
wait for the morning
processional through
the groomed church-yard,
then the low arched door
into the sanctuary,
the pews filled
with people who carry lamps
in their souls,
older people, mostly,
soaking in light filtering down
through arched stainglass windows
upon the earthen tweeds
unvarnished woodwork,
wrinkled skin,
with transparent overlays
of blue and green
golden and red.

The brass bell
resounds from the steeple
over the town by the sea.

We line up for the service,
the organ fills and swells,
we sing the processional hymn
as we walk to the choir stall
down the centre aisle
between the rows of people,
the priest in his robes following.

Not but for love,
never but for love,
so the service begins
every seven days.