A young man of vision
felt, given the chance,
he could brighten up Sundays
with song and with dance.

He gathered about him
the old and the young
and showed them all how
a fling should be flung.

They waltzed down the aisles
and danced in the pews
and all in an effort
to spread the ‘Good News’

But after the service,
the young girls all flocked.
He cried “Now behave
or you’ll get me unfrocked.”

The Bishop was worried;
things had got out of hand.
“It’s time that young man
had a sharp reprimand.”

“Don’t be so hasty,”
the Arch-Bishop said,
“He’s just very keen
and it’s gone to his head.

You know, nowadays,
we can’t get the staff.
At least this young man
is a bit of a laugh.”

God sighed as he watched
“He’s rather a terror.
To make him a priest
was a clerical error.”

© Marion Sharville



Which path to take
beneath the beckoning branches?
All avenues tempt me
with promised delights.

The well-worn path
is easiest on the feet, yet,
I hesitate to crush again
the faint thrust for growth.

A side path, little trod, catches my eye,
leading me where, splashed upon
the canvas of the forest floor,
the early primrose lie.

The summer sun, in turn,
through the leafy shield of lace,
coaches with warm fingers
nature’s self-perpetuating struggle.

Summer passes, Autumn’s
burning glow makes all paths
look alike. The last leaf falls

and shriven trees filigree
the bleak winter skies.

© Marion Sharville

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