Preacher Man Poem by Angela Wybrow

Preacher Man



He stands on the bridge by the church:
For new recruits, he is now on the search.
He stands with his back to the railings;
To gain any attention, he is sadly failing.

It's cold and wet, and the sky is grey;
For preaching, it isn't the best of days.
His words are falling upon deaf ears,
As, down from the Heavens, rain rapid tears.

By many people, his voice goes unheard,
But he soldiers on - he's quite undeterred.
People are rushing to get undercover:
Of this weather, they're not massive lovers.

But about the weather, he doesn't mind,
As fellow followers, he wishes to find.
Folk hurry past - not one of them stays,
And no one listens to a word that he says.

To the preacher, the people do not listen;
With rain, the pavements prettily glisten.
People pass him by without much care;
They treat him like he is not really there.

Time, in his sermon, he may have invested,
But the passing people just are not interested.
Some think he's crazy - somewhat brainwashed,
But his positive spirit remains resolutely unquashed.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: religion
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Angela Wybrow

Angela Wybrow

Salisbury, Wilts, UK
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