It's Still Life

Untitled

In the church across the road, up a hill too steep for cars when it snows, they gather every evening — always the same few — coats damp, smelling of wool and fish. They sit on worn pews, reciting worn prayers, asking for health, or pardon, or nothing they can name, until twilight and the lock key turns, the oak doors sealing what passed between them.

And under a roof of cold unforgiving stars, they descend the hill.

They cross the road.
They pass my house. 

It seems to me something stays behind up there, and whatever it is never follows them home.

Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Stories, including the word “Fish”  Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2026.