Smooth wax spots on a sandstone step

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.

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