Roger G McDonald: ‘My Sunday wars’

My Sunday wars

The cars in reverential ranks are few

These days, and rusting. Like their owners, they

Have trundled through instalment days, and who

Would blame them? It’s the charge they have to pay

To brand, to institution, and to god.

New jingles seep from old religion’s shop.

Walking past distractedly, it’s odd

The smear of cut-rate organ made me stop.

Can it be bricked-in fear that reels them back?

No architecture, crucifix, or cloth

Could surely pay the wages of their claque?

Their sabbath soup’s a stale, insipid broth.

The vestibule restrains two walking frames

Attentive as dogs leashed outside a bank.

Eternity’s inside, the ghost house claims.

Why does it bother? Who’ll be left to thank

It for its desiccated faithfulness?

A flick of time, at most a decade, it

Will boast a fast-food restaurant, or less.

Doesn’t it know we’ve already betrayed it?

Or is it me who doesn’t get the point?

Maybe the geriatrics on their knees,

See something else about this pastor’s joint

That excludes me: a club whose members’ fees

Are set so high to keep the sceptics out

By being free. Belief instead of money?

Is that the price for self-inflicted doubt?

Could it be that lack of faith’s undone me?

Roger G McDonald