Church bells ring in the city centre.
Their hollow clang
makes pint drinkers in the pub opposite
look up, bleary eyes turned to heaven.
People brush past us,
with small children clinging onto them,
and I think of where we have been,
and how we looked at him, helpless,
witnesses to all of the sadness in the world
contained in a pained, uncomplaining limp,
and patchy hair making him bald,
out of place on someone so young.
Families walk in through the thick,
wooden doors of the church,
and I avert my eyes.
At least it gives people hope.
Yet, in that warm Sunday morning hold,
my head on your chest,
peacefulness settling around us -
isn’t there something in that?
I grasp your hand tighter
and we head for home.
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