The Wreath

by christopherjamespoet

Up on the hill where the sky was stitched with rain
and the clouds were as big as hands around the Earth,
we opened the gates to the abandoned church.

A padlocked latch, a tower emptied of bells,
inside stood a Christmas congregation of ghosts.
A finger of light, like a candle, shone on the wall.

Outside, our Great Grandfather lay waiting,
his wife at his side; Methodists both, but still,
we left stout at their grave, and chocolates too

and up against the stone, we leaned a wreath,
fifty years since they last hung one on the door,
all the hopes of the world hanging on a rusting nail.