If You Reach Out Can You Feel The Warmth
Of My Sincerity?
(being ruminations on an Easter church ceremony in a small village
in highly orthodox Greece)
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The heat from 150 candles is threatening to melt my famous British
reserve.
The little ladies dressed in pitch are queuing up to kiss the life
they deserve.
One hundred and fifty beating hearts surround this heathen lost in
thought and place.
One little lady bows her head and, clutching fingers, crosses breast
and face.
And the light is creeping, seeping, weeping, heavy halos bouncing
flouncing faith;
And the candles flicker, bicker, golden goblins floating, gloating
reaping wraith.
A mesmerising chanting voice, a prayer cast, a moment launched and
lost.
An incantation, dragging dull devotion down, believe me, at all
cost.
So many ways to creep into our fragile souls, our open hearts our
godhead.
So many days of hopeless wishing, useless hoping, waiting for the
deathbed.
And the voices slither, dither, wither, potent poison greeting,
eating hope.
And the intonation, supplication, drag you, hither thither, sacred
dope.
Now the priest is moving, through the crowd, scattering smoky dreams
and dust.
Now the young man kisses Mary, makes the sign, breathes in a girl
with lust.
Our sexy vamp, short-skirted angel, modern day madam, misplaced
tonight.
Our holy virgin, pocketed protection pierces lycra dreams
skin-tight.
And the incense, heady, has, already, steadily unhinged my impinged
brain.
And the wicked wicker whispers, beliefs burning trickle tensely down
my drain.
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