Alchemisland

In a dirty church far from its best term.

Its former Vicar yet holds his cooled boldness in a stiffness of shoulder

And a certain vigour; a milk-curdling figure in his day, all piss and vinegar.

Older than eighty, sovereigned fingers fag stained and booze shaky

On his nightly sojourn across the grange turns away.

Before he sees it averts his gaze; sight still hurts like a fresh graze.

Ivy, ferns, weeds, and mice where once a fine choir gave praise

Rehearsed Hosannah in the highest every day.