How Things Change

 

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.