Creative Works
A bit like Tai Chi
The sea moves rhythmically
Ebbing and flowing
A poet like me
‘I told you I was ill.’ Spike Milligan’s epitaph
I muse in Saint Thomas’ Church in Winchelsea,
wondering if God has a place for a poet like me –
in the corner of an Abbey maybe –
I hear the verger shouting at me for stepping
over the communion rail around the altar.
“Show some respect,” he says, “this is God’s house.”
Odd I thought that God should own a house,
and not just one but thousands more –
a super-rich landlord with a fleet of cars and
a private jet he uses to visit the Pope
and the Archbishop of C – not a poet like me –
nor poor Spike in the graveyard still
managing to make us laugh,
with the nation’s favourite epitaph.
If any poem strikes a chord with you, tell me. Only I will see it.
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