when
you yelled your silent psalm
when
we could not make it
to Regimental Day
all I could think of was
a Monday after a Sunday
when
we had not gone to Church.
the polished pews
and your wooden clock’s hand
the Altar
with your crystals grand
and a hymn
with your Regimental Band.
It all came back, bleeding;
and I sat
on a high-arched chair
in the Officers’ Mess,
of myself
I was feeling less
as if
I was kneeling.
Repented
I did confess
to Almighty God
and to you, all my brothers and sisters
that I had sinned
through My Fault,
through My Fault,
through My Most Grievous Fault.
You
rang Church Bells in my head.
Your wife’s astounded stare
at my linen saree white;
Have I worn the wrong colours
to a glamorous Mess Night?
Like my expensive dress
was not quite bright
enough
one Christmas night.
You ushered me to a table red
‘Reserved for Army Wives’ it said
the label by the roses red
said Care of Captain Dias
and I remembered
the nuns:
slaving away
with faith and love
within the cloister line
but who
with noble famous Priests
were given the privilege to dine,
but never to hold
the Eucharist
over the chalice of wine.