The bells of St. Brigit’s are calling tonight
across the sea.
I cannot go; I am not free
bound here in ministry.
Silence and sanctuary are calling tonight
softly, in stage whispers my soul cannot snub.
Slumbering amidst the restless din
I dream of holy hush and polished pews.
I yearn for my holy Father tonight
His presence palpable in the nave
I pine for Bibles with broken spines
spaces where I know God to be.
I rest, cradled in faith tonight
for the bells call but do not toll.
Grace covers; my debts are paid.
All is well with my soul.
This was a surprise prompt from Write on Edge: Add 100 words of fiction (any genre) to the following first line:
“The bells of St. Brigit’s are calling tonight.”