Sitting on coastal fields, atop chalk-lined cliffs,

a stone church remains, the crumbling turnstile of lives lived and past.

Entered together on a bright sunny day, devoid of teenage cares,

light beaming the only colors inside,

pouring, unobstructed through stained glass windows of yesteryear Saints.

 

All else is monochrome, like a sepia drawing,

chalk-colored walls replaced stations and images.

No sanctuary lamp, statues, even Christ was missing,

replaced by a cross, removed as if buried for all time,

leaving just His symbol, the suffering detached.

 

Silence resounded, amplified by whiteness now decisive as a Welsh chapel on Sunday,

but without the sound of voices raised in praise.

The old organ pipes silently past events, happiness, marriages, baptisms in worship …

Eucharist removed, apparently forever,

adds to an ambiance full of emptiness and loneliness; yet electric with hope.

 

Unfilled now with patrons declining in years,

visiting for Christmas and Easter, through a broken but open door,

hands shaking in fellowship,

while heads shake invisibly, silently … searching for meaning.

Meanwhile the Holy Spirit remains … Waiting patiently.