ST. MARTIN IN THE FIELD

It was a world of brown holland of Miss Havishams and Estellas until poverty was diverted from the reading rooms of libraries —

an unofficial congregation sleeps out full forty winks of prayer touching reassurance in the oaken pews remembering when life was new and Sunday-smelling —

secular sermons to “Mind your wallet. Do not leave unattended valuables ...” the Church’s treasure is a dish of sunlight that streams in through the unstained glass —

there is that rustling noise of silence shuffling conversation and newspapers taking little liberties with God — this is the pit shift

St Martin in the Field field grey down the tunnel of a gun.