You Can Have A Fry-Up When We Get Home

Those quaint old days
Stuttering down church lane,

The scent of yew trees and guilt
Mingling in the breeze,

A congregation gathering,
Bustling and honing their acts,

Parading their families
And perfecting their walks,

Cocksure strolling and small talk,
Piquant smiles and faint praise;

I’m playing with stones in my pocket,
Thinking about a late breakfast,

The fluffy well-cooked beans,
The hot pops of sizzling bacon,
The snap of a perfect sausage
And the dawn yellow egg yolks.

Then into the hall,

It’s all scuffled shoes and whispers,
Everything smells of buffed leather
Melted wax and the weekend perfumes
Of gliding wives and grandmothers,

Hushing and shh-ing for England,
As they shuffle to their seats,

Huddled quiet all waiting
For the vicar’s tales of death

and transcendence –

They stare at him intently
Like someone’s watching

And taking notes,

It’s one big interactive theatre
But the show’s so dull it hurts

And I’m shivering in a void
Of sleep-deprived echoes,

All distant excitations
Banded tight, impatiently waiting,

Rubbing dirt from my shoes
And itching my legs,

Rattling like collection coins
And questioning the penance,

Staring at a plastic Jesus
And dreaming about my breakfast.

One Response to “You Can Have A Fry-Up When We Get Home”

  1. Dennis Carter Says:

    I love that last line: Staring at a plastic Jesus
    And dreaming about my breakfast.
    Dad x

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