On Church Street

Shortly after closing time
outside my unknown church –
feeling a stone’s frore
off dead men and women
upright as chiselled recalls

and staring – all – in disbelief
at that zealous parish priest
who dolls up as a spectre
A welcome departure
from his-biking leathers?

Do you fancy a whole Sunday
of such wanton dressing-up?
But – note – none of that
purely Anglicised-God-stuff
No vertical iron pressings
No M&S slacks in ageing beige

I am not of that creamy dotage
marked heaven-ready
My dark walk is guided on
by each clack-clack-clack
of my tapped black stick –
no more standing as a stone
Satan will catch me
if I stay too long

Mike Bell Poetry

Mike Bell aims to write 10,000 poems, stick them up here one at a time, and then take a nap. By then he should be about 85 years old and have out-gunned PD, dementia, and the end of days. Possibly. Before the floods and fires. Mike Bell is found working for money as a freelance set designer.

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