A Pome a Day for a Year

Deep in the bowels of a broken church,
light flickers and dims, the candles
no longer attended to
and the flock passed on,
no ears for sermons.

TV scrambles across convex glass,
a dial from the eighties hangs
loose and swaying to the preaching,
that tumbles from tinny speakers,
but still the flock are lost.

Gigantic billboards, screaming in colours
that consume vision and attention,
screech gospel and directions
but have you not seen?
The flock has been gone,
for centuries.