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Wendy French

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Sacré - Coeur

Wherever you turn to look for evidence of someone’s God
the church is ablaze with two or ten euros worth of burning

as relatives light candles and make the sign of the cross.
Appease their guilt. And this same guilt engulfs me,

only I don’t buy, don’t spare even two euros.
At home the white candle is lit every evening while we eat.

As we walk round to leave I spot a dying token flickering,
light spent but still plenty of wax and wick. Fading fast.

Without burning my hand I re-ignite an unknown flame,
say your name as the young man at the end of the pew

earnestly repeats a dusty prayer, his head is bent so low
it almost touches his knees. With this stranger’s candle

now alight come another stranger’s sobs. Incense
catches my throat. If only the candles could exit

and with the trees breathe, sway and blow
in an air of tolerable indifference.

Page(s) 27

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