The Church on the Hill.

The Church on the Hill.
Lee.

The church is an old man of a building: it’s whitewashed walls are flaked bare in places and are home for weeds, nettles and brambles which creep and colonise every available inch. It’s eaves are crimped by corrosion whilst it’s bones are bowed and sagging, and looks like it’s bell tower should have toppled decades ago. It’s eyes don’t see anymore as the stain-coloured glass has cataracts of Perspex to protect it from the stones hurled by the ungodly and the hateful. Maybe only faith keeps it standing, much like the attending, Spartan congregation which thins with every passing year. Or maybe it’s the weeds and the brambles? Being so tired is dogmatic. I feel sorrow for the old man and his visitors. I have always believed that only the lost and the lonely suffer such dereliction, and now I know and see that I was right, yet being right hasn’t…hasn’t felt so wrong.