Christopher Hopkins writes

Winter moths

The shadows of street lights swing 
with the commute,
along our routes of black water colours pooling.
From the parking lines and stopping lights,
to our freedoms behind front doors.
We winter moths of January,
head in from the night,
where the wolf moon hides behind forest walls of winter.
Where desire lines are turning black
upon the tip jar covering.
Up the ‘skelters' of ivy sheen,
to the black electric of the oak trees bare.
There its howl is pierced calling.

Diesel trains pull into the sunken towns,
we all tined meat unloading.
A hurried pace for grazing stock
on station flagstones and pilgrims lanes.
Stepping light into the forest tracks,
with its thug embrace of a gales force warning,
there the cathedral home is awaiting.
A promise of the gold electric blush,
glowing patchwork cut from the nightly black
as we pass the neighbours' windows.
We know our way
on these branches off the main,
a hundred times with tired eyes,
and still that sight it sparks alive.
Our place of full heart
locked away from those wolves and gales.
Sunday morning sermon blues

The after hum of copper peal.
Lingering draw of church bells,
once at rest.

The air white with peace.
A clear resonance for a moment,
before the bleeding screams

of gulls reach down.
The ashen coke grey sky flecks,
matching paper print on kitchen tops,

breakfast spots on ironed shirts
and soap tides on five years olds.
Sunday welcomes all.

Come repent your week's reliefs
and abide with countenance
of the hallow’d smiles,

as such warm beds are wasted,
to such a waking hour.
Our guilt played

with saintly pluck.
Bless us all, each one.
Ranked by ordained love.

 St. Patricks Church -- J.P. Rooney