Sunday School

Hair thinning or completely gone

on our faces, now sixty years older

are writ personal scriptures

lines, crevices,

etched and eroded into mottled skin.

We were all last here in 1958

for Sunday School, us

parceled off each weekend

two hours peace for mum and dad,

time to get the washing-up done,

then lay the table again for tea.

Those vivid pictures are what we remember most

the vague dimmed screen,

that was never dark enough

in the Mission Room,

windows too tall to be blanked out.

Fierce Goliath felled by scrawny David’s slingshot

Samson, angrily bringing down the temple

Daniel passive amongst three sullen lions

and the Jericho trumpets

lauding an earthquake zone.

Captivated, singing two hymns

one each side of a bible story

a message to take home and recount.

Today, it’s merely memory lane,

one or two of our number

still bothering God, the rest of us

lost to damnation.

But we all came back again,

Didn’t we? Curious

in this ancient place,

aromas of Mr Sheen and Glade

not old books and cobwebs,

and in several ways

we feel cheated.

Published by grahamrsherwood