She left her religion in our care.
Her old prayerbooks and Bible, lapped by mould
And intoxicated by time.
Immediately, we felt the flutter of her anxiety.
We all agreed, the books were too far gone.
Their words tumbling to the floor, detached
From their sacredness.
As we piled them high in the hearth,
I was vaguely aware of something wrong, remembering,
I suppose, old tales of hate against all books,
When even thoughts were set on fire.
It was many days before I put a match to them.
And even then I wasn’t sure.
As the blaze took hold of the Bible, something small
And worm-like-wriggled from between the pages of Genesis
And the illiterate flames roared with unthinking joy
As they burned the beautiful, perfumed trees of Eden.

Today’s poem is from Ron Carey’s new collection A Storm in Arcadia (Clare Songbirds Publishing House). His debut collection, Distance, was nominated for the Forward Prize Best First Collection.