The church was locked and I sat on the churchyard bench thinking.
The village sounding distant, lawn mower, and bank digging.
The sheep at a distance barely moving, new life in the white blossom growing.
The old Walesby warm honey glowed stone church for a thousand years not stirring.
But here before me the gravestones were breathless quiet.
And where on Holy Saturday is God?
Do I believe He is dead or just asleep, this is my disquiet.
These village people before me, their eternal rest never ended under earth’s unforgiving sod.
O let me, I beg in this quiet spot come into his presence.
And now at last in stillness I feel his touch.
So tentative, so fleeting but devoid of life’s menace.
The church is locked but he is here with me on this bench, a holy hutch.
I move, I stand, I walk gently closing the gate.
He is gone and for my breakfast and the World’s calling, I am late.