Communion on a Sunday Morning in June

Let others to their stone and glass temples fly

As the bells ring out their call

To service.

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 follow

to swipe honey on my biscuit

on my tongue and worship

the fruits of his labor