In The Mourning

Harold knocked muck
Off his shoes on the wall.
Dust flew amongst the sunbeams
The rhythm of the beats timed
To the woodpigeon’s coos

A library of thoughts
And dreams from the future
Mixed themselves into
Harold’s gravel and slurry
That early Spring morning

The new Methodist Chapel
Its foundation stone, laid,
Named, and dated,
Stared out from its low corner
Down the decades, down the lane

That celebration day, a hundred souls
Arrived with bunting, trestle tables
Coloured ribbons and children running
A brass band and the noise
Of neighbours filled the night air

There it is, still, unburied,
Held fast between the chapel bricks,
Unable to rid itself
Of the unreturned, or turn
To face the empty pews

Its congregation
Left here to sing and weep
Whilst the others, a decade
Or so later, always young,
Found a door open in heaven

Harold, the man of shovels
Knew it would take more than
Kicking against a wall
To shake a nation
Free from its absent dust

A century, and then some, later,
I walked past the stone
Down the lane, but it stopped me
And looked me in the eye
Before it let me pass.