Sunday Afternoon

I remember it well
Though I could never find it now
It stood, somewhere
Out the back of Kerang
Down some corrugated road
Grown insignificant by
Time and neglect
A road much like life
Going on, but who knows where?
We find out when we get there
It stood off this road
Weather board, weather beaten
Foundations gripping the drifting grit
With arthritic tenacity
The faithful gathered, more
From repetition than any great desire
Prayers soggy from sweat
Trickle between the floor boards
At home in dust
Than rising to
Heaven’s vault
I am a bad piano player
It is not a good piano
Ours is a brief, succinct affair
Bashing out off key hymns
As if by noise alone
We can bring
The resurrection
But weariness from the week
And Sunday lunch
Anaesthetise the faithful
And wrapped in heat
They sit, warm cadavers’
By my fathers fervour
By a benediction
They drift away
Through heat and dust
We take that road again
The corrugated road

That goes, who knows where

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By badgerslabyrinth