The Burning

It was the flickering that woke us;
-orange-blue-orange-blue-orange-blue-
and drew us like giant moths to a lantern;
pressed against the glass, our hands,
as if trying to feel the heat, unwilling
witnesses to this impromptu cremation,
The gothic windows had never shone so brightly,
prayers had never risen so directly
or adamantly to their destination,
as the blasphemous flames, carrying the
'OH GOD'S!', and 'CHRIST'S!', straight to heaven

Later, the charred beams and pews,
collapsed like a pile of bones,
smoulder their souls into the drizzle, confusing the pigeons,
wheeling, lost and tired, looking for a familiar roof.
The doors gape like a toothless mouth,
black with cancer, breathing out the odour of death.
Turning away, we take the baby's path back,
no longer suprised by the 1/2 size plots, the Cherubs,
the Angels, the teddy shaped marble.