Sketching religion, love and time in the valley (V.1)

The old hipster church in the trees had long gone bad and soured.

It was a long time coming, alot of thought went into the decision,

But, really, you just turned and went,

Staggering down the path to the river bank.

I’d see you standing there, ankle deep in the cool water,

On a hot summer afternoon just as the breeze kicked up the valley.

You couldn’t hear the moaning procession that was soon to follow

From the trees, down the trail, and to the water.

Fortunately, you were long gone then.

The breeze had carried you off: like the last stammering wailings

Of tired parishioners fading into the evening woods,

never to be heard again.

I don’t see you there anymore,

But sometimes, in the morning, I hear the crack of a twig in the woods,

And wonder if you sit there,

waiting.

I walked to that place once, climbing back up to the high place

Where it once stood, and wondered if there were tears,

Did you hold them back?

Or let them fall to the water, to float downstream.

Or maybe you are now the song of birds, the orange of pumpkin,

The splashes made by moving water.

Maybe you are the cackling laughter from the old lady that lives in the shack,

Just around the bend.

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