Car Boot

A field, on a Sunday morning.

Fried egg smells, eminating
From the snack wagons dotted
About. Our Sunday service,

My dialogue with God, replaced
With mindless bartering over
Cardboard coffee cups.

This field, a karma junction,
Items with stained energy,
Passing over, under the
Hymns of the car boot,
Items of communion,
Approach plaster table
altars. Make your Offer.
And say your creed.