From where I sit
the stained glass memorial window illuminates
the step up to the altar, and a constellation
of wax spots emerges from the stone
each time a cloud passes by.
Innumerable wax droplets I never realised
my shoes touched on Sunday mornings.
One–maybe two–of those drips fell from a candle I held
on a midwinter’s feast day.
Just last month was Margaret’s funeral–
she was responsible for a few, I’m sure.
My two lively children will leave their share
of Advent and Easter candle wax spots too,
all to be walked over
by priests and acolytes leaving theirs.
Smooth wax spots on a sandstone step,
have been touched–will be touched–
as often as lips taste from the chalice.