The Church

Just before Communion was dispensed

My mother pointed out the woman

Dressed in grey plumes and quills and sheen

Of looks, as Tara Palmer-Tomkinson.


So. You may need reminding.

(No, you won’t, the kind who don’t

Say they know who she is, they

Know her well enough to disapprove).


A line of royalty and others too,

A career and some adverts and a face

That is attractive, very, save its cause.

But Tara, of the Irish hill, at Hampshire makes her home.


“No reason to get excited” – eyes mock-averted,

We bowed, as at prayer or twinging from the Host,

A good-attendance-ful of Lancelots shunned the Grail,

To let the city clothes and home girl sit at ease.


Beside me and behind me sisters knelt

Who dressed to match her and had conserved strength,

Who laughed with me at wombs and veiled flesh,

And at the vicar’s aphrodisiac.


I didn’t laugh with them about the blow

Caught in her drooping feathers. For she

Sang lowly, she looked down and did not take

A blessing from Rev. Parnell-Hopkinson.