This is one of a series of poems, written by my Grandmother, that represent a portrait of her childhood in Thomas Hardy’s Wessex, places and people she loved who are, for the most part, no longer with us. She dedicates each and every poem to her daughters, and has kindly given me permission to share them with you all, enjoy…
Places Of Worship
It seemed fitting that my grandmother should
Lie so close to where she’d taught the children
For so many years. And always now she would
Hear the congregations being bidden
To Sunday morning worship. Just the same
I wondered how my grandfather had felt,
That morning when the undertakers came
And left him there for always by the church.
Uncompromising non-conformist, he
Had preached in all the chapels round about.
Ironic that of all things it should be
What bound them closest that kept them apart.
For every day at dawn they both would kneel
In prayer together to the God they loved
But on a Sunday, at the church bells’ peal,
She would meet God in her way, he in his.
© Dorothy Davis-Sellick 1998 onwards