Little Town poetry: Uppingham Methodist Church

Uppingham Methodist Church.

 

Four foot next to the font 

wearing a tall chef’s hat 

puffy on top

I played ‘The Baker’ in our Nativity

envying angels –

their wings, their glitter

I was no square Methodist

but proud of the apron Mum lent

and recalling how I kicked 

the Minister who wet my head 

the stranger who held me.

 

God was in the house 

• every Sunday

Mrs Pallet’s Ballet School

• Saturday/Thursday

Mrs Toat’s Playschool

• every weekday morning

til’ they upped the rent. Buckets 

of second-hand toys,  that 

unhinged Wendy House

I pushed over 

with shouty boys inside.

 

Jesus belonged to Sunday School – a trainee God

in the Church Hall, away from Wesley’s pulpit

such a sweet Youth Leader – one of the older kids 

his lovely locks felt-tipped, life-size

on a poster I helped make (pride)

hung above Kitchen steps, protecting 

our descent to green utility cups and biscuits.

 

It was the cool thing to do at 11.

Skip out the kitchen-door

down a cobbled hill on

to the main road – the A47. 

I’ve forgotten the date 

but always felt bad about

that – not knowing. 

I can guess the feeling, how it smelt.

 

Rotting paint on the back-gate in Springtime

Mrs Bentley, thumbs plinking broken keys 

for pleasure, to an empty floor 

scuffs from Brogues and Resin, crumbs

light falling in wide Georgian beams

outside-in, beyond blue double-doors

to heaven’s ship, I made my exit 

the coward’s way, never to return

leaving three small words, framed 

on a wall with other lambs

 

 Christened.