Sanctuary

I’m in a small town waiting for my hostess while she visits one of her home birth clients. It’s Monday so the history Silk Mill is closed and the fellas at the bar stood me up. Rather than wander the streets of Whitchurch for an hour, I’ve taken shelter in the Methodist Church. I figure that if I sit with my eyes closed and my hands clasped, I can pass as a devout woman, rather than a tired visitor in search of a place to nap out of the wind. This Jesus looks like a Druid. I ask for protection as I catch 40 winks.