Inside

 

The three of us sat round the crisp green apple.

The dark-haired Catholic artist with his dreams of Mary.

The violent skin-head with his abrupt actions.

Myself the poet.

In my mind it was the day I was to marry Susan

In Durham Cathedral.

The windows were locked.

The skin-head took out his knife

And cut the apple in three.

He served his Eucharist.

The Catholic boy with his vision bit hard.

I savoured the tangy fruit.

We were scared of the skin-head and his knife.

He was leaving that afternoon.

Just visiting.

The artist and I were inside.

The voices spoke of wonder.

God, it was horrible,

The stream of filth from the subconscious.

The green apple symbolised the end of our world.

An end of innocence.

Special people in a special place.

We three were chosen to make sacrament

To atone for the agony.

We bit on the apple.

 

 

© Douglas Clark