Lizbeth's hand
is on the metal ring handle
to the church door.
The hand twists.


Hard to move,
jerks, pushes.
The door gives
and they are in.


Smell of oldness
and damp.
He closes the door
behind them, his


hand giving gentle push.
It clicks, holds firm.
Small and old,
the walls a fading white.


Old beams, pews,
altar table clothed
in white a cloth.
She looks around,


eyes scanning,
hands by her side,
fingers of one hand
holding her blue dress.


He follows, footsteps
after hers, scans her
before him, the walls,
the old wood pews.


They stop and turn
and look back
at the smallness
of the church.


Here will do,
she says,
pointing to a pew.
He shakes his head,


we can't, not here,
people may come.
No one comes here,
except on the monthly


Sunday or the odd
visitor or tourist.
He scans the pew,
old wood, wood knots.


Who's to know?
She asks. He walks
down the aisle
touching pew tops.


She watches him,
his reluctance,
his hesitation.
Some boys would


jump at the chance,
she says. But not
here, he says, turning
to face her, not in


a church, on a pew.
Some might, she says,
running a hand
over the pew top.


They had parked
their cycles outside,
at the back
of the church wall.


The sun shines through
the glass windows.
What if someone
comes and finds us?


She smiles. Moves
towards him.
Touches his face.
Imagine their faces,


she says. No, I can't,
he says, not here.
He stares at her,
her smile, her eyes


focusing on him,
her red hair loose,
about her shoulders,
her blue dress,


knee length,
white ankle socks,
brown sandals.
We're only 13,


he says, shouldn't
even be thinking
of such things,
let alone doing them.


His body language
tells the same.
She gazes at him,
his short hair,


his eyes wide
with anxiety,
his grey shirt,
jeans, old shoes.


We'd always
remember it,
she says, here
on a pew, me


and you, this
small church.
We could come back
years later


and view
our love scene.
No, he says,
not here, not


He looks at
the walls,
the roof,


the pews,
the altar table,
white cloth,
brass crucifix.


She sighs, looks
at the pew,
imagines the place,
the area of pew.


He and she.
But it is just
mere thought,


she has not so far,
nor he, just an
impulse on her part,
an urge, a hot


compulsion to
Let's go, he says.


Wait, she says,
let's just sit
in the pew,
just sit.


He studies her,
her eyes lowered,
her smile gone.
Ok, he says,


and they enter
a pew and sit.
The sunlight
warms them.


He looks at
the high windows,
at sunlight.
She sits and looks


at the brass crucifix,
the distorted Christ,
the head to one side.
She wonders how


they would have done it,
he and she, here,
on this pew.
She is unfocused.


She feels the sun
on her. Blessed,
she thinks, maybe.
He feels a sense


of gain and loss.
He has stepped
to an edge,
stepped back,


gazed into
a dark abyss.
She turns to him,
leans to him,


thank you,
she says.
They close eyes,
lips kiss.

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a.griffiths57's picture

Lizbeth's third visit

An enchanting tale in your poem. I liked your poem very much a good read and enjoyable.

Dadio's picture

Thank you.

Thank you.