Under a painted ceiling of stars and a moon yellowing its teeth a tree like a huge green hand has fallen in the wind taken out a stained- glass window the torsos of Christ and others. Naturally there’s plenty of shattered gore. *** What the shit. . . I’m in one of those moods. The faith by the looks of it is held together by sellotape most of the hymn books are peeling their skins and the priest is nowhere to be seen. *** A voice smelling of river food whispers through a confusion of leaves while the church balances precariously on a broken branch.