A shared space where tea is made at the end of things.
Where ancient strings hang from high windows
And the blinds go up and down.
Here we come.
Sunday morning after church –
You are welcome to join us in the hall for tea or coffee:
Watery warmth in white teacups
Angled close to a fluttering spill,
While intent faces beneath thick make up
Share life and care,
Children, beneath the canopy of wavering cups,
Are free in a forest of legs:
Hiding and chasing.
A passage for rites:
See the new baby come to join us.
Watch him grow.
One of us, another one of us.
Week on week,
A life in time lapse.
Ceilidhs and parties happen here –
Suddenly we are together:
Flashing past in a reel ,
Flung in a set on the floor,
Fast light feet and clumsy spinning…
Hilarity at incompetence in fun,
And the music,
And the dance.
And the sparkles swept away
As, with shoes in hand,
We tiptoe out into the darkness
Wearing someone else’s jacket.
Together we grow towards death,
Held together by sharing today.
The rest of us will be here.
For tea and sandwiches
Aching with memory.
A wide broom sweeps the floor.
Please leave the hall as you would hope to find it.
Hand on the doorhandle,
I peer into the empty space,
Where life is lived where we can see it.