This is based on a true story.
Sky clear but with the odd beard,
White vapour trails of silver bullets,
I'm out back talking to Clodagh about her bees,
She tends the hive, wears a white head to toe outfit,
Makes her look like an alien visitor, net visor and all.
There's a knock at the front door, serious sounding,
I excuse myself and attend to the door,
Strangers, two strangers, greet me with broad grins,
Strangers, two young men dressed in black from head to toe,
Well, apart from their crisp white shirts glinting in the sunlight,
I say hello, what is it, knowing full well what they represent.
One replies politely, we are Mormons and are in the area,
They have ID badges and virtually the same names,
They carry a holy book, leaflets and a home video,
Can we come in and talk to you about Mormonism, one asks politely,
I don't really want to spend all evening talking serious,
So I tell a little white lie - I've got to put my bees to bed.
But, eh, fellows, I don't want to sound disrespectful,
I am interested in all religions, all spiritual subjects,
I read, I debate, I research, I listen, er, (I tell little white lies),
The young men with old time religion names smile at me politely,
Would you like to know something about us, one queries politely,
Gentlemen, I say, it just so happens that I know a thing or two about you.
I explain I'm at university and have just finished a project about, yes,
The development of Mormonism in the context of social and religious
Dynamism in 19th century America, or words to that effect,
What a coincidence, what a rare opportunity to share knowledge,
Boy, did we talk on that doorstep, did we chew the fat, we did,
For two hours or more we gossip about everything Mormon.
Joseph Smith, lost tribes, gold breastplates, divine revelation,
Persecution, trek west, many wives, Brigham Young, Zion,
Utah, Salt Lake City, winter Olympics, Mormon missionaries,
Were all discussed at length as the shadows shortened,
One yawns politely and says they have to go, time's pressing,
I apologise for keeping them, say goodnight and come again.
They didn't return.
Poetry by Chris Fernie
Read 416 times
Written on 2009-06-16 at 10:01
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A summer evening, deep shadows,Sky clear but with the odd beard,
White vapour trails of silver bullets,
I'm out back talking to Clodagh about her bees,
She tends the hive, wears a white head to toe outfit,
Makes her look like an alien visitor, net visor and all.
There's a knock at the front door, serious sounding,
I excuse myself and attend to the door,
Strangers, two strangers, greet me with broad grins,
Strangers, two young men dressed in black from head to toe,
Well, apart from their crisp white shirts glinting in the sunlight,
I say hello, what is it, knowing full well what they represent.
One replies politely, we are Mormons and are in the area,
They have ID badges and virtually the same names,
They carry a holy book, leaflets and a home video,
Can we come in and talk to you about Mormonism, one asks politely,
I don't really want to spend all evening talking serious,
So I tell a little white lie - I've got to put my bees to bed.
But, eh, fellows, I don't want to sound disrespectful,
I am interested in all religions, all spiritual subjects,
I read, I debate, I research, I listen, er, (I tell little white lies),
The young men with old time religion names smile at me politely,
Would you like to know something about us, one queries politely,
Gentlemen, I say, it just so happens that I know a thing or two about you.
I explain I'm at university and have just finished a project about, yes,
The development of Mormonism in the context of social and religious
Dynamism in 19th century America, or words to that effect,
What a coincidence, what a rare opportunity to share knowledge,
Boy, did we talk on that doorstep, did we chew the fat, we did,
For two hours or more we gossip about everything Mormon.
Joseph Smith, lost tribes, gold breastplates, divine revelation,
Persecution, trek west, many wives, Brigham Young, Zion,
Utah, Salt Lake City, winter Olympics, Mormon missionaries,
Were all discussed at length as the shadows shortened,
One yawns politely and says they have to go, time's pressing,
I apologise for keeping them, say goodnight and come again.
They didn't return.
Poetry by Chris Fernie
Read 416 times
Written on 2009-06-16 at 10:01
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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