It was familiar when we were younger.
Sundays were different to other days,
We’d dress a little nicer, were told to
speak
A little kinder, and we’d gather
In a building made of stone and history.
The old were grateful for the young,
The noise of children a reminder
That time was once without limits,
That coloured glass made stories brighter,
That tradition would be continued.
Or so they hoped.
I was around thirteen when I decided
That I was wiser than it all.
Doubt came with the realisation
That it mattered not whether the door was
left open at night,
And thoughts became something to fear.
The sky high pillars, the long white
robes,
The book with too many words to ever read
No longer held all the answers.
We went back today.
It wasn’t intended, the sound of a band
Rang out, so we stood at the gates and
watched
For a while through the open doors.
Let’s go inside for a minute, why not?
The smell was exactly the same-
Musty, wooden, the smell of age.
Different faces, different daffodils,
different walls,
Yet that scent- identical.
And all around they sat, as we did,
All those years ago.
With ears still fresh enough
To believe every word.
