It isn't precious, no Catholic gold and glitz,
just white columns, acanthus leaf, rams horns,
dulled oak - a sparrow would look down on grey
heads, black coats, wheelchairs, corner painting
and tomb, hear a violin dirge in a square nave
that's housed hatreds, saccharin cant, that's
never seen a floral granddad nor crossed
hammers in claret and blue roses; and this
before the spirit's weakening to the body,
the fidgets, coughs, desire for the wine and
smoked eels, toilets, match of the day...