It's that time of year again, when there are quite a few poetry competitions for Anglos like me. I've not entered any for the last couple of years after being placed in one, and getting outed as a poet in work (definitely non-U in an IT department). I have a few to get ready, a fairly painstaking process, so no new fiction for a couple of weeks at least.

This is one I'm working at, it's a bit old fashioned, and perhaps too self-consciously Welsh, but I think it has legs in it...

The Missionary

Melfa Matthews scrubbed her step
with vigour and with Vim
scouring out the mason's marks
then starting on the Maker's.

Where glaciers failed Melfa ground
a panting, pistoned tide
the ebbs and flows of decades
condensed into each morning.

Once a Witness turned up
trailing mud and scripture
his footsteps pious puddles
around his Woolworth brogues.

His briefcase barely open
Melfa sprang like Judgement
scattering the Watchtowers
with a well aimed angry broom.

Poor man, he met a wrath now
he'd thought his prayers prevented
for Melfa knew in her Book
no sin like muddy shoes.