Legions of the faithful.

Each Sunday morning, as the iron bell tolls
to gather to itself the Christian souls
a congregation, supplicant, arrives
and, parking across gates or blocking drives,
passes, with downcast gaze, the old church doors
(leaving behind their ill parked four by fours)
to lift their voices to the lord in praise.
While we, poor heathens, trapped inside a maze
of Rovers ranged across the narrow lane,
are captives in our Sunday homes again,
and cannot, ‘til the final blessing’s given
proceed with the more secular side of living.


On Holy days and high, when young folk wed,
At gatherings to commemorate the dead,
they pour in like an automated horde,
the products of Toyota or of Ford.
With revving engines and with smoking tails,
alarms that raise aloft their banshee wails
if anorexic wren or buzzing fly
should land upon the car (or pass nearby),
polluting, with their noised, the valleys peace
but drawing no attention from the Police.


To celebrate the season of good cheer
The motorised column steps it up a gear.
Mothers and children flock from near and far
in Chelsea tractors, following the star,
while fathers, like the Magi, follow late
in vehicles more designed to carry freight.
Creating, thus, a second metal row,
They grab their digi cameras and go
rushing to capture pictures of their brood
and entering into the festive mood.
While we, the locals, raise this song aloft,
“Come not here, all ye faithful, bugger off.”