CHURCH ON SUNDAYS

CHURCH ON SUNDAYS


The din of bells is beckoning and heard throughout the shire
So Prim, prestigious Mothers flock to Sunday morning church
Whilst gentle, warm and dignified in smile and attire
They feverishly evangelise of bringing back the birch.

(Well that’s as may be Mavis) dons a brand new floral frock
Then Hatty from the corn exchange is dowdy, peeved and flush
The smell of rain on pavement is a gentle, welcome shock
Though their vulgar, black stilettos are not used to being rushed.

But rush they will with voices shrill to have their peers approve
Although the downpour dowses them their sanctuary waits near
With sickly, camp sobriety and pigeon chested piety
The theocrat gesticulates that all are welcome here.

The shuffling and the tilted hats, the handshakes and the pride
Are orchestrated by the reed organ’s deep and vibrant hum
Whose ancient, inane melody lure all into the lair
By accessing their reverie of guilt and fear of fun.

The rigid wooden settles face the humble learned man
As stained glass Saints froze still absorb the reading for the day
The ‘Gloating golf club social ladder’audience applaud
As the ‘Gloating golf club social ladder’ speaker as his say.

And all that’s good in scripture and that wills we love our neighbour
Is nodded and approved of by all present it appears
But all on the condition that it meets with their tradition
For otherwise its teaching seems to fall upon deaf ears.

But with those dull red tarnished leather hymn books up they stand
To sing for their salvation and their dreamed of promised land
Quite apt the service ends in a procession from the doors
Of prim, prestigious mothers out into the dank mid morn


TIM SANSOM AUTUMN 1998.