In what sense am I nearer to my God
For being here? This priest's a kindly
His sermon's borrowed, stumbled through
These windows are not art, though brightly
The choirmaster's voice is grandiose.
My neighbor in the pew would have me gone.
(Such spinsters clutch the third commandment
The muscles of the neck suppress a yawn.
How many of the men believe as I do,
Who come to waste part of this least of days
Waiting in hope to kindle faith, or try to
Affect the candle's flicker with my gaze,
Or watch, as the communicants parade
Back to their seats, to see the glimmer fade?
© 2000 Alfred Nicol; originally printed in Troubador.
Reprinted by permission of the author.