After the Chapel

The chapel has been gone for years now.
Only the grass remains
where the walls once stood.

I remember how it looked
when the bell still rang on Sundays
and people came in quietly
as though someone important
might already be waiting.

My father believed that.

He said the world had a shape,
that if you followed the rules long enough
you would see why they were there.

It sounded reasonable then.

But the bell stopped.
The roof went.
Eventually the stones were taken away.

Now there is only a field.

I stand there sometimes
watching the wind move through the grass,
trying to remember
what exactly I was meant to believe.

The sky offers nothing.

The birds continue their work
without any reference to us.

It is strange how quickly
certainty disappears.

Even the prayers
feel like something learned at school
that no longer applies.

Still, the place is not empty.

A primrose grows near the old path.
Someone has left a gate half open.

Life continues in small ways
that don’t explain themselves.

I walk home through the fields
without expecting answers.

But also without the fear
I once thought would follow.

Only the quiet knowledge
that the world goes on

whether or not
anyone is watching it.