The warmth of cold stone

A pigeon flies low over a head stone,
plump with summer feed,
blackberry filled shit
splatters the granite.

One hundred and nine years later
growth has blanketed the grave,
a bush claims the spot,
bursting with new ripe fruit.

A young boy is eating more than he picks,
pops in another and spits out the pips.
His fingers are stained with juice,
thorns repeatedly snag his wrists.

From outside the small church
he listens to the service for the first time.
The pulpits microphone, feeds back, new age
 in an old place. "Take and eat this in remembrance"

He notices a statue beneath the bush
and thinks about the blackberry,
nutrients in the soil passed stalk to stem.
"And feed on him in your heart"

He drags away the brambles with red raw hands
to reveal an aged stone crucifix,
detailed by Jesus, moss and frost fractures.
"The blood which was shed for you"

The following Sunday he tended the grave again,
sat on the grass in the quiet of the churchyard
he looked into the statue's stone-cold face
and began to recognised something of himself.

I'll just sit here and listen, he thought;

What he heard, changed his life forever.