Communion on a Sunday Morning in June
Let others to their stone and glass temples fly
As the bells ring out their call
I service a higher god
A quieter god
Who lingers in the faint beating of the bee’s wings against the palest rose petals
Who rings out with the whisper of leaves rustling up a hymn.
Who decrees that a simple communion of homemade biscuits, the freshest of farmstand strawberries and a dollop of yoghurt enjoyed fully is communion enough to absolve my sins for one day.
And that tomorrow will – in this summer at least – take care of itself tomorrow.
As we forgive us our sins and trespass not against the day
By hiding from it
Behind pews lined like open coffins
and songs that drown out the whispers of the bees to follow
to swipe honey on my biscuit
on my tongue and worship
the fruits of his laborof love.