Lorraine Carey

Pipe Dreams

I saunter in with my heathen tendencies, marvel at how small the altar looks through my adult eyes.

The tabernacle catches glints of sun and the little key in the lock means I’m not alone. I can hear gentle pottering in the sacristy. The snow-white linen on the marble is starched and stiff in the right places.

The embracing scent of daffodils and bluebells rush me right back to school and the May table.

I wait, sliding into a pew, the ox blood knee pads won’t welcome my creaky joints. I ponder the silence, the birdsong outside. I eventually look; I know it’s there, the old organ to my left, the wooden seat shiny with years of polished play.

church organ
the old hymns
breathe new life