That Church: poem

Sometimes

you’ll think of that church

where the children sang

and you played guitar

sometimes you’ll think

of the suits and dresses

they wore, the black

ironed fabric, the girls’

hair curled in waves

 

Sometimes

you’ll think of the man

who taught you, who

with beaming grace

stood before you

and led

sometimes you’ll think

of the girl you loved

the curves behind

her knees and the taste

of gifted mince pies

in that church

that you sometimes think of

 

 

Em Humble
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