Clouds

Monkstown Clouds


The clouds they come and go

Across the windows of the Meeting Hall

On a Sunday morning sat on benches 

In Quaker silence above a polished floor.  


Against a sky of China blue 

The August clouds dance across

The Georgian fan of glass

For as long worship lasts. 


Until we shake hands and nod

To one another and give thanks

For the hour spent sitting silent

Seeking for the Spirit’s presence. 


The sun breaks past the yew trees

Lights up window sills and casings

Transforms bent heads from grey to silver

Whispers grace, peace, surrender. 


Small is beautiful and this is small

Unpretentious and unknown 

Whilst outside a throbbing village 

Buys its Sunday papers and ice creams. 


Joined in spirit  by our dearest friends 

Along, across the Monkstown Road

In handsome churches greeting

The same clouds as our own. 

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