The Sermon Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

The small church normally snuggles under oaks
on a high hill, close to the bright blue voice of God.

But today its rusty shutters creak as the storm chokes
with wind the trees that otherwise nod

their heads in the warm somnolence of the sun.
Here, beside grave vaults of the long-sleeping dead,

the cold chastening of their mournful prayers begun,
the faithful, gathered, gaze at the demanding sky with dread.

As the last-hymn shadows thicken on the floor,
in flickering candlelight they summon up their plain

dumb pain and struggle through the door
to stand white-faced in the scolding darkness of the rain.