I think it was the part of work that he enjoyed
the most: the times he traded in his stuffy robes
for jeans; a chalice for a hammer; priest
turned foreman. He rallied men to play Canute,
to stand against the tide of time that pulled
the church down slow—too large, too old.

I don’t know how the ladder ever slipped
on that sandpaper floor of rough wood blocks,
but down he went. His elbow smashed, the rest
a bloody mess. His labourers reverted
to his flock; harassed like sheep without
a shepherd—devout, devoted, lost.

The eye of the storm, I heard him calmly say
“Don’t worry, son, I’m going to be okay.”