Weapons

A poem of future communions

As I walk through pinewoods unarmed, 
a family of birds watches carefully  
expecting weapons 
where none lie.

I have come to reclaim communion
and let the pale legions die!
But instead of giving welcome,
they chirp amongst themselves.

Sinners are sorry to be caught,
the mother bird tells me.
There is much yet to uncover 
before the gates can open again. 
Search inward
and tell us what you find.

END