Sat inside this old bus shelter
painted cream but soured to rust,
overcoat with old loose button
no wife no more to sew it on:
Heard the bells chime out
at midnight,
what have I done?
nudging at some old tramp,
come on mate just giz a swig
white cider lifts my guilty conscience
but life just goes along and on;
Chase my mind to three years back
a hillside church in Skiathos town,
no-one there
just me and God,
through stained-glass window
saw sun on sea
and just for a moment
everything felt good.

(Martin Nicholson has asserted his right to be recognised as the author of this work)

2 thoughts on “Conscience

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