A Quarterly Journal of Contemporary English Language Haibun
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June 2005, vol 1 no 1

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David Cobb, UK

The Priest Hole

A wriggle of hips, a twist of the backbone, a lurch and you're down through the hole in the stone floor and into the brick-lined gut of the hide-away. You straighten up and sit on a narrow stone bench. You try to wipe something away, but it's a shadow and you can't. You think, Jesuit after Jesuit sat here and waited. Panic in their heartbeats, or faith in providence, if not the Pope? Salvation approaching at its own sweet pace. The walls sit tight as ever to this day.

in a cobweb
belonging to who-knows-whom
a human hair



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