O Come Emmanuel

Winter Solstice tomorrow,
when the snow will look
like Slush Puppy dregs.
Tonight, St. Martin's Church,
a friendly cabaret
of dew-nosed worshipers
all scarf and duffel coated.

Mr Basso Profundo, sat
a foot behind my head,
booms the Lord's Prayer
like the voice of death
via Brian Sewell, then
with blinding versatilty
sings like Mr Bean.
The plums in his mouth
probably ripened on
the tree of knowledge
six thousand years ago.
An old dear steps up
to read The Lamb by Blake
in a shakey paper
geriatric whisper,
then a small child
saying something about love
with a frightened face.

The crisis comes midway
through O Come Emmanuel,
that old fave, likely written
by some frustrated nun,
when the organist lifts
his cack-hands proudly
after the big finale,
but three verses early.
"Oh!" from the first row,
chat from the back,
some look to the rafters —
is the spell broken?
is this our freedom?
was that the holy spirit
stealing into the vestry
with mulled wine
and the collection plate?

I'm just thinking
when will I be released?