On a Sunday morning
when I was thirteen,
(Lord how many years have gone)
we walked to the church
up the lane where lambs
bleated in the valley meadow
beside the road.

Three grown women
in woolen spring coats
dropped their voices
as we giggled past them.
But we heard, and one by one
stopped our laughter
as we fathomed their discussion.

The man we knew, sweet and humble,
though a bit touched it was said.
Had been found face down
in the pond in Streeter’s park
where lime trees stretched in a grassy avenue
as though they grew in a London mews.

We knew the pond, caught tiddlers
in nets. Played Orange Free State
just because we liked the feeling
of those words on our tongues.
Now, as we reached the path
beside the church wall, the path
that led to that hedge where
just beyond was the pond,
I turned my face in that direction
then away. I saw my friends’
faces do the same.

And while we sang the hymns
and recited the Our Father,
I could not stop the thoughts.
Of the drama in my brain.
Had he fainted and fallen, or did he
just lie down in the cool
dark water where grasses
waved at the edge of the pond?
And was he wearing his soft cap?
That detail seemed so important.

After the service, we wondered.
To go to the pond that afternoon
or was it necessary to wait
several days or more.
The Reverend Robinson made
our decision; there would be
extra confirmation classes
that Sunday. Pilgrim’s Progress
was so difficult.

January, 2004