MIDNIGHT MASS

It was the night before Christmas

But only by minutes

Under the snow dusted dome of St. John’s

A congregation of celebrants

Some had started early

Not wanting to be late

Or come undone

Out of the slowed night

They padded and fluffed

Into the church

All a flicker

All golden and red rich

With sanctuary

Fat Father Unsworth

Huffed into his robes

Patent leather shoes

Unseen these years of his puff

When standing in his finery

Invisible eyes lost cheekily

Oblivious to the vestments and the routine

Assisted by little Sean Reilly

Scrubbed and squeaky in a surplice

Cassock, stole, alb and chasuble

A drapery green and gold

A pig stuck in a seasonal tree

But pumped up with pomp

Fat Father Unsworth had gravitas

That belied his apparent immobility

When it came to Mass

He floated

The drunks at the back

Plastered the brickwork

Those in the pews

Closed their eyes

And took advantage

The heavenly choir above

Boosted by Mrs. Kelly’s sibilance

Hissed out hymns to the tired

The merry

The downright pissed

And in came Father Unsworth

Little Sean Reilly

The altar boy behind him

Everyone stood

Nearly

And words were said

And someone snored

Sacrament was dished out

Duty was done

The ponderous affectation of the priest had been suffered

For another year some torture

For a while some guilt had been bought and sold

And so to home through the white soft streets

Humming their lullabies

Little Sean Reilly would stay a while yet

Help to divest the swollen body of the priest

As it sipped at something stronger than altar wine

Then clean the accoutrements

And back to the chapel

Snuffing out candles and

Have a dip in the molten wax

The pleasure of peeling at fingerprint moulds

There and then from high in the still church

Came a lonely cough

That turned Sean cold

Someone not gone

The echo fades

Sean’s ears

Deaf to the quiet now

His heart as a trapped rabbit

Though his blood pumped true

And his legs moved him on in his duty

The dossers must be cleared from the pews

But waiting for little Sean Reilly

In the balcony

White faced and prone

Masochistic on wood

Hugged into a coat full of holes

Was the shade of a man

Once known

Away from the safety of the vestibule

As fat Fr. Unsworth snorted his whiskey

To the gods

Sean went

Up under the Byzantine mosaic

Beneath the dead eyes of Jesus

To creak on the open minded stairs

For to do his duty

The scared child ascended

Wholly righteous

Towards feathered authority

To confront this shade

In his makeshift nest

Although thirteen years old

And still wearing his dress

The snow drifted like a crowd

Camped out on the doorstep

Inside

Sean had only his light

Hello

Who is there

The shadow had words

Come near

I need you

Sean did his best

The boy scout

Went to the man

Looked into eyes

Like fires in windows frosted

And Sean saw his father

And the mess

Shot through with politics

Killed by religion

And as he lay bleeding

He gave of his blood

A bloody lie and a gun

The Brits had got him

Right in the gut

Take this to O’Leary’s

They’ll look after you

Revenge us he said

And then he was dead

Wrapped up and done like Christmas

So Sean shot the priest in his arse cheeks before running

Put some holes in his chasuble too

Stole a chalice, a monstrance, the offertory box

And never did say god bless you