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.