The Taste & Touch of Grace
Just as it truly is, a small and wondrous worshipping place;
Remove all artificial growth. Leave no trace –
So that I may fill in all past and precious detail;
The sound, the smell; the taste and touch of grace.
The door was never locked, no key to turn.
A child, I’d enter there, an eager, tender heart affirm.
On a stool, I’d sit quaint organ keys to test.
This after-school sunset hour, a joyful hour for my return.
I’d kneel at the altar and make a little prayer.
No one ever entered and found me there.
Oft’, rather than enter I’d sit on the nearby bridge.
Neighbours listening: at dusk, I sang in the evening air.
I just happened to be living close, that church not mine.
Seldom used now, though not through the years left in decline.
This painting on my wall holds sweet sights I recall,
A row of trees extremely tall; the musky smell of pine.
I dream of that little church I see so seldom now.
Again fresh painted, when down that lane my slumbers slow.
The old red cottage demolished, an ugly grain barn built.
But church and those dear memories through my dreams and senses flow.
Benita H. Kape © 16.2.2019