Helen

Helen by Neil McCall

She was wiry and beaky
as a third world chicken;
tiny untouched breasts
ideal for netball
but if she ached for love
she hid it well.
She played flute for Jesus
collected friends
travelled the world
and kept her legs well hidden.
A spinster of this parish
world without end, amen!

Of course, I had it wrong;
someone shambled in,
and scooped her up
with hands that swung like buckets
but could play a mean worship guitar.
He ringed her fluting finger.
I watched with joy
as he hugged her
like a car crusher
with two hundred people looking on.