Under a finger-pointing spire
we sat, thigh-jammed in pews.
Elsewhere, our distracted desires,
the fleshy heat felt
through grey trouser and innocent skirt,
got sung away incomprehensibly.
Our squeaky voices pitched erratic,
and stubby wee hands held
thready, grubby hymn-books,
slowly dismantled, idly picked.
We’d scan dull eyes lolling
of other kids in other years,
see them mouthing stuff,
gossip , jokes
collecting scowls from bored teachers.
The minister got uselessly folksy
An organ pitched in, with some half-known clue
then we’d all stand, again,
and sing something else we didn’t believe.