On watching my son make his First Communion
Sporting a sharply-pressed suit my
teary-eyed wife can’t bear to bring down
to Barnardo’s when she goes to town,
he shuffled up, fingering his tie,
to meet the Creator of the Whole
Known Universe, to confess his sins
with practised spiel and lip-bitten grins,
well-rehearsed for his penitent role.
From my pew, I watch the stone-faced priest,
speaking on behalf of the One God,
absolve him with raised hand and faint nod
of his trespasses. And then, released,
the six year old boy resumed his pew,
giggling and nudging Mark Donoghue.