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Kiosk of Sins

Nod in agreement, an ode to Mr Wilde
The architecture of a Church vessel, two halves neatly laid.
Norman arches cascading in green mould, and hymn numbers
on damp card, worn edges and over-thumbed
By fuming censers, grave faced boys.
Young. Those alone with their subtle fascination.
Intact. The stroke of personality I long to behold.
Never to accept the intellect - not even
The stars and the moon.

I look with wonder at the black confessionals
The kiosk damp with the musk of spoken sin
and shadowed deed.
Half-mumbled dalliances, watered-down tales.
Feeling the stillness in prayer.
And the cleansing of tap water.
I dream - of the men, those who have whispered through the worn grating
The true story of their lives.