Just around the corner
stands our church -
Grade II listed,
a giant of Liverpool,
a 1960s sanctuary
in art‑deco light.
Patrick Reyntiens in the windows,
the mysteries painted on the walls,
all the years, all the stories, all the faith,
gathered quietly within.
Big and bright -
you should see it
when the sunlight
pours in.
It’s where I grew up:
laughter echoing after Mass,
whispers, prayers,
kneeling as community,
one family,
children of God,
learning to sing and stand together.
It’s where stones
were thrown at the windows
as we tried to pray -
and still we stood,
one family, year after year,
in our usual place, the same church bench.
It’s where we said goodbye
to those we loved,
candles trembling
in the stillness,
faith holding
what we could not.
It’s where Fr Ed
brightens every Mass,
placed music in my hands,
taught me to practise,
told me my voice
was there to be shared.
“It doesn’t matter
if you have butterflies,” he said,
“as long as they’re flying
in formation.”
The first steps to the alter,
to stand before the congregation,
and to make music
as a community, year after year.
It’s the Holy Family
watching over us,
the aisle where I walked
to be married,
the pews filled
with friends and family,
the grand organ ringing out
with hymns
and hope.
It’s love and memories,
woven into every beam of the cross
that lights the night sky -
a beacon of faith,
and the courage
to keep it.
It’s hope,
quiet
and true.
It’s unconditional love,
in all the ways
it grows - eternal.
Daily, weekly,
Sunday best -
the people,
the place,
the faith
of our fathers.
A place, a peace, that holds us,
wherever we come from,
wherever we’re going.
As it was in the beginning,
is now,
and ever shall be.