POETRY
Chapel
Twenty-five years after I first went back
I remember again the Chapel’s tiny order:
the low tide ridges of dark wooden pews,
their cast of hymn books and kneelers,
the altar’s Last Supper reproduction
I didn’t know as a boy was by Leonardo,
beside which the lectern rose, from where
the Head would speak six days a week,
the Reverend on a Sunday.
Blue carpet strip on dark wood herringbone,
white tall walls and, on each side of the crucifix,
leaded windows framing an old-walled lawn
which spread westwards, widening towards
the large oak tree under which, on summer
afternoons, Miss would read us our favourite
books when we were in the youngest class.
Beyond its shade began the lake and woods
where we could play when we were older.
Further still, ran the busy road that marked
the border of our world.
At Christmas, we’d stand and sing
‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ in Latin—
near shouted its exoticism in our excitement—
watching for the snow that never showed
beyond the golden cross and the fresco’s
faded, outstretched hands.
That’s what I remember about going back:
the surprising cliché of a shrunken world,
a marble dream I pocketed as I walked out—
a lost miniature that spun on till now,
when something in its spreading view,
those delicate hands, the echo of that Latin shout,
broke it open once again.
Craig’s had poems and short stories published in several UK, US and European magazines. He lives and works in the UK.
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