​At Sunday Mass - Eileen Earnshaw

We are welcomed to his house,
Whatever day or reason,
philosophically, you could say
that God is with us every day,
a sort of whistle and he’ll come to you.

Still we need that open door,
the heavy oak turned back,
the reveal of muted golds and
sun beams through stained glass.
 
We need the velvet smooth benches,
 the love stitched into kneelers,
 the incongruity of ladies hats, scarves,
 the squashed curled pantomimes beneath.
 
Their worried faces beg forgiveness.
Hope that Sunday roasts
incarcerated on low lights don’t go mad
and burn down the kitchen.

We need the shuffling of kids, the patient faces
of men and penance,
damping down thoughts of promiscuity,
maybe praying the pub is open,
the coins in his pocket enough for a pint.

The mass progresses, rhythm of hope and alleluia’s
a basso profundo in the front row
shows off the talent the lord has lent him.
His wife and daughters in thin falsetto
a beat behind, a mimicry of his majesty.

​Eileen Earnshaw 2024