Desiccated thistles scrape the walls.
Missing pulpit, pews and windows leave
grey spaces where the wind whines. But before
this scatter and decay there must have been
some final meeting here. Some Sunday when
they wondered how it came to this. And then
filed out, looked back perhaps, climbed up,
shook reins and left the last to leave to shut
abandoned things behind a pointless door.

1995