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Valerie Clarke

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The New Incumbent

At  interview we noted the cassock stained with
rust mould, collar spotted, an odd metallic smell
on his breath, but we weren’t spoilt for choice
since he was the only applicant and he loved roses,
which won Miss Lewis, who was always in and out
with the secateurs. ‘I like the crimson ones best’,
he intoned in his fur-trimmed voice.

Then came a series of accidents - young Murphy,
Mrs O’Donnell, Tom, the gravedigger, drowned
in one of his own waterlogged holes. Days
we saw less and less of him, but at Midnight Mass
he was resplendent, neglecting the Christmas message,
endorsed the fires of hell to a quaking congregation;
pink-cheeked among the diminished choir.

Was it the candles made his teeth gleam like relics,
refusing all invitations, and him after six months
still lacking a housekeeper?

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