The altar is stripped, the vestments folded
and put away. Your chalice has
been shrouded, housed in gold, to await
our sacrament. Shall I be priest
again? Shall I speak once again
to heaven? All that is made flesh
seeks consecration, yearns to join
as one. A moment — we know god
one moment and the moment slips
into eternity. The altar
is bare, the nave grown dark, and you
are but a statue, standing in shadow.
Stephen Brooke ©2016
It is inevitable that my Catholic upbringing occasionally shows up in my poetry.