Poetry

While we walk around the church,
I tread on the lawn at the painted flint-glass windows
and see her calves with three doves as her company,
there is some gravel, in the distance a train whistles.
 
With a reaching hand Jesus hangs on a cross,
He is vituperated where blood flows down in a puddle.
She takes my hand while we walk all over the garden
and fear is seen, like it was at the time.
 
Still she holds onto my hand while bees turn around us,
branches swing in the wind and the sky is dull blue,
some drops of dew glistens and the lawn is cleanly cut
and her eyes shine while she holds onto my hand.