The day of the cold sun

I came home, walking past the bank

a man stopped me, he is the local holy man, nut, sage, lunatic, thief, pervert

depending on who you ask.

He pointed to the bricks in the old bank

(off North Street)

and said;

‘Following the guns and bombs, will come the trees and vines,

they will grow here and knock the buildings down. We are in the middle of a great forest.’

I passed him, nodding. I understood.

I sit in my room. My house (second floor anyway)

looks out over Mount Mary

and on top of that is the holy Church of Our Lady.

I watch the people go to church

the mass is held midday

and at night they have an old fashioned latin mass

(to which I want to go one day just to hear the latin)

The people come, wearing their best clothes

and it’s not just old people and¬†immigrants

The church is on top of the hill and commands a great view, to its north is the city and to the south is the train tracks and

poor houses.

When it rains I close my windows tight

but dream of letting them stay open

counting the rain drops as they soak my carpet

leaving me sad

and soggy socked

for weeks afterwards.

Step into the shower and

let the water run down your back

and listen to the bells, the bells

calling.

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