There was tearing in the floor-boards
and night would not
forgive the ex-communicants for
walking in on it.
It was a battered forgiveness
caught up in the ceiling
which was hard to catch
the fragments of,
the tatters in the beams.
And we were milking
honey-bees for fringes in
the working scheme of money-making
to fix our tattered, grinded teeth.
I told them that we would be there at seven
to have the car waiting
But we were delayed by the tearing.
The wood would
soon be stacked in batches
to sift through before we could leave the building
We’d have to take care of this messy milding.
We’d have to dig
to find forgiving.
copyright: C. Ward 2016