Poets amongst priests is, in many respects, obvious, but for me at least, it is initially anachronistic. But sitting here amongst the gathered Unitarians and Free Christians poetry is a refreshingly dominant interest and theme.

There are those who have self published, there are Chapels celebrating poets with whom they have a link or interest or direct connection and there are Ministers who use poetry as a means of expression, of dialogue and of communications.

For my own part I have always regarded poetry and my own scribblings as a core part of my faith. Poetry for me represents the articulation of my innermost, my thoughts, my feelings, my direct emotional psyche.

So just to reflect that pleasure of mine I am indulging my own journey here of some years ago:

St Church in the Fields

I have a place long gone in my heart that matters –
It is a church, it sits in a field, but it is not the religion.
That physical church is owned by an organisation
That rejects me and suspects me.
So physical prayer is wherever I am. 
My field is open, ploughed, seasonal.
It’s where I fly, dream, write and walk.
But it was my root, my foundation, it was presented as being me.
But in that established church, in that field, in that other place
I have never lived or cried.
I have explored, walked, run, laughed – yes on family visits –
But that church has opinions on me, us, our very being.
So that place, small, old, traditional
Has become inaccessible, obstructive, purposeless to me
And as it slips away into the dusty archive of memory
So I too chose to move on, and together the family move on.
Meanwhile my own chosen faith embraces me, includes me.
My church is a place detached, dissenting and distinct.
I like to walk there and sit and write and do nothing and reflect.
And I draw things together, tie off lose ends, unpick the knots.
So I find joy in the delicate silence or the deep laughter.
The doors are open, pews removed, the lecturn at eye level
The thought, the respect and the deliberation is constant.
I can trust the warmth of those around me.
And return to that other old church perhaps I finally will.
In final form when the time comes to sleep or to roam the stars.
But that commitment will be a task for others, as I shall not be watching.
As I drift finally across my church, fields, faith and foundation.