There is a deep calmness to Mass here.
Warmly hunkered down and sheltering from Emerald rain.
Officiants gliding to their sacred tasks, as if on oiled rails-
Even the tiny alter-folk, combed hair hovering
above an altar massive as a billiard table.
Today, the Priest rattles on as if shouting the odds,
Yet people are here for so much more than words.
It is in the very air.
A large congregation stipples the pews, as if
Bright chips of Mica, poised on ancient sea-carved rock.
Here, children read the Mass:
Serenely addressing tides of worshippers.
When Holy Water scythes across the nave,
faces long used to rain rise
to meet its glinting arc.
All are known here, or feel known.
Those same faithful rails take offerings to those
Still sitting, as others flow to their communion,
Then pray, silent, with serene brows
or head clasped concentration.
As wind and rain arc down,
Seven bow for the performance, then glide away.
© Tom Tide 2017