Tell out my soul
the wonders of Brasso
as the cross, flower vase
and offering plate
are polished in this
last remnant of ritual.
Rubbing away the pock-marks
to reveal a face
of disbelief.
Candlesticks will flicker
and glow warm tomorrow
when the people gather.

The cleaner tut-tuts to no-one,
or someone.
A sceptical Jonah in the
empty belly of the whale.
No reason and every reason
to be there.
Once all bins are emptied and
the vacuum stacked away
Maybe then
for the prodigal flower-arranger
a lick and a promise
of redemption.