The Rector

Most Sundays he preaches of life

and death, of God in His glory,

of answers like plumb-lines

that fall from the Gospels.

His homilies carry the hues

of heaven, their glow

suffusing those in the nave

like light through stained glass.


At home in the rectory, three novels

and a volume of poetry sit side

by side with his second Bible

on an improvised shelf

above another that holds

a single clay flower pot,

its red geranium blossoms

bright as arterial blood, the shelves

carefully fixed to fit for a while

the home-made coffin

that will stand upright

against the living-room wall

till the day he requires it.


At times when his parish

is nothing but trouble,

evenings when his golf game

is gone, his putting erratic,

he seldom passes the coffin

without a dire glance,

then a nod of his head

and a grin.

© Copyright, 2015, Robert Currie.
All Rights Reserved.