They form a fluid line

Near the entrance to Specsavers

Suited, polished, hair slicked to neatness

Smiling gravely as I approach.

One is proselytising,

Before alternating with another

Who steps smartly to the fore.

Yet another, partially hidden,

Goose-steps almost jauntily

Into my space

And proffers me an offering of words,

Printed of course,

Trying to catch my eye.

Avoiding him is momentarily difficult,

His hand hovering hopefully.

Then I swerve deftly by him

Leaving Jesus still firmly in his grasp.

my latest poetry collection ’67 is now available @


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