Thursday Poem

The New Church

The old cupola glinted above the clouds, shone

among fir trees, but it took him an hour
for the half mile all the way up the hill. As he trailed,
the village passed him by, greeted him,
asked about his health, but everybody hurried
to catch the mass, left him leaning against fences,
measuring the road with the walking stick he sculpted.
He yearned for the day when the new church
would be built—right across the road. Now
it rises above the moon: saints in frescoes
meet the eye, and only the rain has started to cut
through the shingles on the roof of his empty
house. The apple trees have taken over the sky,
sequestered the gate, sidled over the porch.

by Lucia Cherciu,
from The Broadkill Review, (Vol. 10, Issue 2, 2016)