Stone pillars frame the holy place
Cold gloom pierced now by shafts of light
A pauper kneels with upturned face
And bares his soul before God’s might
Beyond the cloisters other rites
On gilded chairs beneath the rood
The Bishop and his acolytes
Are mouthing empty platitudes
Now winter draws its cooling breath
The pauper makes his holy sign
And shudders at the thought of death
The acolyte decants the wine
The holy men debate their faith
Whilst seated round a warming fire
The pauper drifts off like a wraith
His shadow fading ‘cross the quire
They find his body in the apse
Then pray to God for his repose
Oblivious to his collapse
Crushed by the tithes that Rome imposed
Austin Brady