A WEARY TRAVELLER

The breathing ghosts
Fill empty space
Of a church that echoes
Serene with grace
Its wooden floor
For centuries tread
Echoes loudly
Both living and dead.

Each holy relic
Its alter proud
Speaks to me
Its voice aloud
A temple where
I visit seldom
Its vast eye watches
My spirit tremble.

Non believer still
Yet ink on vellum
My lost soul in thought
Its calmness welcomes
A weary traveller 
Without a home
A place to rest
Not to atone.