The Priest’s Lament
They flock here after tragedy
this flock of souls, these sheep
that bleat and moan of ‘goings on’
yet in the darkness keep
their garlic bulbs and silver shot
and horseshoes nailed above the door -
‘For luck,’ they say yet whisper still
of iron rings for good or ill
and cross themselves and every night
they swear to keep the faith alight.
The fires are dead, the church is full -
if God allows both old and new;
for who are we to make a cull
when monsters are His children too?
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