Pockets of people

Filled with kindness heaven sent,

Earned and freely spent.

Church steps worn by the

Passed, who still reside outside.

But under the grass.

Silence is golden

In Quaker Meeting Houses.

All things considered.

Knaves in graves in naves

(Or perhaps it’s in apses?)

In cold cathedrals.

His hope never died

For he knew, deep inside, that

The Lord would provide.

Manna from heaven,

Grapes of wrath; all food for thought

For men of the cloth.