In a country town, the doors and poor boxes

of churches left unlocked, I would steal away

in cricketing heat. The Baker sisters –

veiled spinsters in black, were gardening

like keepers of bees and secrets.

Inside the church the sun was a stain of light.

In the sacristy, pewter cups, unwashed linen

and caged ash in thuribles were enough

to make you believe that spiritus mundi

was under house arrest. In the nave

I’d experiment with kneeling. In the chancel

I’d invent biblical names and watch

over proceedings, my tongue an organ stop

my hands casting wide nets of prayer.

Sometimes a door would open and I’d see

a long shadow hesitate before

heavy timber closed like the audible

stages of relief. I’d keep the confessional

for last, as trespass has a ranking scale.

I confessed to crimes imagined and real.

It did me no good, but I loved the vision

I had conjured on the other side –

a priest in cowl and scapular, leaning in

to say Tell me, and tell me straight, have you

and will you again? his mouth betrayed

by a quiver.