The church door, old wood
clasped in iron.
A scattering of dry leaves on the step. The wind
picks one up, hangs it on a spider-web. Earlier,
bells rang out over the square.
Now it is empty. Vague footprints track
the sandy paths. The people summoned by the bells
have gone.
On another day, if God allows it,
they will gather here again, sing a different song.
Until then, tiny sparrows dart
unknowing
amongst the bare branches.
clasped in iron.
A scattering of dry leaves on the step. The wind
picks one up, hangs it on a spider-web. Earlier,
bells rang out over the square.
Now it is empty. Vague footprints track
the sandy paths. The people summoned by the bells
have gone.
On another day, if God allows it,
they will gather here again, sing a different song.
Until then, tiny sparrows dart
unknowing
amongst the bare branches.
Peter Newall has lived in Sydney, Australia, Kyoto, Japan, and now Odesa, Ukraine, where before the war he sang for a local rhythm and blues band, the Newall Band. He has been published in Britain, Hong Kong, India, Australia and the USA.
panoply, a literary zine 