The meat counter
The butcher and his vicar wife
have stopped eating meat and these days
they’re agnostic at best.
Their lives revolve around Sundays,
meat and God. Let’s say grace
and tuck our serviettes in.
No faith now, but it’s too late to find
something new. They’re 58 their only option
is to persevere in what they once believed true.
Her whole congregation
used to send her Christmas cards
her whole congregation used to stop
and say hello but she doesn’t go
into the village much. No-one
rings the church bells anymore.
It’s not about the animals or environment
He just doesn’t like the texture underneath
his fingers. It feels too cold. Too real.
Of course she’s had conversations with atheists.
So many, but she’s smart and she believed
It was just this moment one day, like realising
you left your bag on the train and that was that.
There is no God, but it’s Sunday tomorrow.
I better not let anyone know that I know.
She weeps now for all those unanswered prayers.
He can’t believe all the fields of meat he’s clingfilmed
And handed across for people to eat.
It’s what happened to the man who rang the churchbells.
His letter was read out at the AGM.
‘I am crying as I write this,’ he wrote
‘but I can’t do it anymore.’