From a few years back.
What’s in a name?
There’s an abandoned church building
not far from Bodmin town,
and I passed it every day
on my way to work.
Carved into the lintel,
still visible despite moss
and the ravages of time,
despite savage Cornish gales,
the bold angular words
Primitive Methodist.
I cannot be the only one
who has smiled,
picturing the Minister
and his flock,
dressed in animal skins,
whirling like dervishes,
and banging spears on the floor.
Nor can I be the only one
who has thought, briefly,
"If I was a churchgoer
I could fit in with that lot. "
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