Village Church

The carved head over the south door,
A grotesque grin with bulging eyes,
Square cheeks and too much nose is quite
Old enough to see through those below in
Cold cynicism. Eight centuries

Of looking upon the parish ways
Have not worn off its sharp edges.
The church porch has seen too many
Couples courting, kissing, marrying,
Youth turning grimly responsible:

Medieval maiden or present-day
Vixen, self-styled Romeos, strong
Women, the hesitant village fool -
Bright come-hither eyes or
Bleak sorrow’s cold shoulder,

The net result too often proved
Nothing but grey indifference,
Deluge to drown our first
Excellent intentions - lasting frost
Our destiny, with Eden’s summer lost.