poem: child of the manse

Child of the Manse

 

 

‘And prayed only with its’ lips

When the child was a child…

It couldn’t imagine nothingness

And today shudders in the face of it’

 – Song of Being a Child, Van Morrison

 

 

 

 

knowing the tap-source

of the baptismal font

and his father’s prayers

bathed always repentantly

 

the child of the manse

dreamt parables ego-cast

 

amid sermons mind-seamed

father’s stoles and vestments

into one brocade

relic, Joseph’s spectrum coat

 

coveted their lengths

for the dress-up box

 

arranged his coloured pencils

in seasons liturgical

purple advent, red Pentecost

 

the child of the manse

wondered if Christ ever

visited the Australian bush

 

if bushfires are hell

on earth, and heaven’s

stillness Antarctica,

and still does

 

the child of the manse

grew up, moved out

saw the manse a house

of worship and now

prefers God nomadic

 

 

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