THE RUSTIC CHURCH
There used to be an old rustic church in a vale,
Protected on all sides with hills, hearty and hale,
They were rather steep and difficult to plow,
So save on lower slops, wild flowers did grow .

From early spring to late fall, inside the nave
Of the old church that always dismal and grave,
Were hundred of wild flowers lovely to see,
The altar and every window ledge full of beauty.

They always seemed newly picked the air so sweet,
The gatherer of the wild flowers I wanted to meet,
No one seemed to know how they came to be there,
They just knew that unseen hands did it with care.

The long day was ending in a blaze of red light,
The western sky glowed awhile so very bright,
Then came night with full moon and many a star,
I waited by the rustic church for many an hour.

I heard a gentle rustle, like a sweet blowing breeze,
Or the wind causing the sighing of the tall trees,
A child and old lady came with baskets of flowers
They did not seem real, voices more like rain showers.

They saw me, bid me enter placed flowers in my arms,
They sang hymns as we worked a sound that calms
An overanxious heart and takes away hurt and pain,
The way the flowers were placed was hard to explain.

They gave me a bunch of yesterday blooms still so fair,
I took them home and placed them in water with care,
Many weeks those flowers stayed fresh in my home,
But I never found that place, wherever I do roam.

(Millicent) Ann Margetson 3 May 2004