Father McDowell paused for effect;
a wave of exaltation (and a cold breeze) came over him
in a kaleidoscope of faded stained glass colours,
which crept over — and through — beads of perspiration,
moving like ticks, feeding off the dead skin on a wine-stained carpet
that was the birthmark on his forehead.

His eyelids were twitching,
and through midnight purples that blotted his sight,
he spotted Sally McCormack in the first row to his right;
raising his hands – high – he hid the crucified body of Christ
(dangling on a single nail)
as it was being pushed out by the steely tendrils of vines.