By Roger G McDonald
Lost and Found
The choir knits the air with hymns of praise.
Its three-part crochet magic taunts belief.
A thousand voices leave us in a daze
because they’re only fifty. And some thief
has nicked my cynicism—what relief!
My thousand isn’t wrong. The attendance
obeys the choir. The air becomes pure sound.
Ignorance transforms to joyful penance;
We’re islanded, with music all around.
If this is paradise, we’re lost and found!
(to be continued)