I expected to see the stovepipe hats,
the no smoking,
no joking brigade of religion and
that’s the truth.

I saw instead
the bed unmade,
the lawmen too tired to
move on a raid,
men moving along with their dope
for the bong which stands rigid at
twelve on the clock.

No preaching now
no eveangelist chants
no rants from the righteous
no one to save us
lockdown has made us
all heathens,

and you will tell me
I need no church
to praise him

this primitive methodist
as he tends to the fields
‘midst the birds chasing bees.

She’s telling me tea,
I don’t disagree,
like the weather
we’re changeable.

© 2020, John Smallshaw.