Here I sit on the yellow timber pew, five minutes before Thursday six pm mass the silence bearing down on closed hands pierced — by the drone of an old lady kneeling at the rear gripping a white plastic rosary her wedding finger on a tarnished plaque a mortal husband’s name worn thin The moustached parish father in his white alb not yet vested in his embroidered cross sneaks a glance or two out of the sacristy doorway counting parishioners one head, the next and one venial sin Ears attuned for the ring of the little brass bell — I'm pulled to the right of the altar of St Peter and his shepherd's staff striking a pose on a marble plinth then wander back past the unadorned weekday altar a baby Saviour, his pink cheek nuzzled in his father Joseph’s plaster beard From the crown of my head, right in the centre where brown hair thins raw thoughts spin to a fine glass thread — drifting in figure-eights gazing up — flaked clouds of white acrylic stained with old winter rains between the tip of St Peter's mitre and Joseph's brown curls Then it dives — pikes and straightens, to wrap around St Peter's sandaled big toe slows — the red flicker of the sanctuary lamp shines through the thread’s glass skin Hesitates — touches tip to lace hem of the white cloth on the altar the spun glass turns page white a breath returns — down the loops and curves of the single thread, whispering back into my head, down again into my lungs exhale small thursday’s grace
beautiful!