The vicar comes in every Thursday.
Passing wine between wizened lips,
pressing wafers into thin-skinned fingers.
The women here know all the words
by heart, have spent the last eighty years
making homes of their mouths
for the prayers of preparation.
My tongue still stumbles
over lines dredged up from childhood
memories of school assemblies,
if I don’t think too hard about it
I can still remember the lord’s prayer.
One lady holds my hands as she
prays and I find myself saying
the words along with her,
find myself praying as I leave every
room, Lord grant us peace,
Lord help them sleep.
There is something about this place
that makes you want to
Rhiannon Willson is a poet from Wales with a BA in English. She writes mostly about the people she loves and spends her spare time playing scrabble with old ladies and trying to learn how to rollerskate. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Dreams Walking, 5050 Lit and The Honest Ulsterman, among others. She can be found on twitter @rhiannonwillson and on instagram @rhiawillson.