Three flagstone steps
and then the ground stirred,
earth cushioned footfalls
which expected a stone cadence,
drier leaves were the course.
What once was a pew
bible arranged,
turned into a wood bench,
designated prayers
as a natural moss recliner,
ripe fruit strewn.
Three more steps,
a vaulted ceiling branched,
shimmied into layers that shielded
from a sudden downpour,
last water trickles dropped
improvised timpani
to dissapate on grass.
The choir aisle formed a herbal border
tended as in a cloisture,
sage, parsely and mint brushed
alongside tyme
which spread outwards
in handfuls of fertile aroma.
Only in the cafe afterwards,
not remembering having left that place,
a nun mentioned a forest scene
on a cathedral altar panel,
took a tiny seed from her hair.
