The vicar comes in every Thursday.

Passing wine between wizened lips,

pressing wafers into thin-skinned fingers.

​

The women here know all the words

by heart, have spent the last eighty years

making homes of their mouths

​

for the prayers of preparation.

My tongue still stumbles

over lines dredged up from childhood

​

memories of school assemblies,

if I don’t think too hard about it

I can still remember the lord’s prayer.

​

One lady holds my hands as she

prays and I find myself saying

the words along with her,

​

find myself praying as I leave every

room, Lord grant us peace,

Lord help them sleep.

​

There is something about this place

that makes you want to

reach out.

•

Rhiannon Willson is a poet from Wales with a BA in English. She writes mostly about the people she loves and spends her spare time playing scrabble with old ladies and trying to learn how to rollerskate. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Dreams Walking, 5050 Lit and The Honest Ulsterman, among others. She can be found on twitter @rhiannonwillson and on instagram @rhiawillson.