Ramshackle hope shelters among the trees,
staving off thunderclaps in a fingers-crossed makeshift
of pine logs and corrugated iron,
communion of tea and biscuits, hymns
of solidarity outgunned by traffic roar,
the cold eye of surveillance trained
on these rag-tag devotees of the clip-winged dove.
Nothing like uniforms to arm your diffidence.
Nothing like razor wire to state they shall not pass.
Nothing like clear spring-water to raise hearts.
Nothing like rough-cut stone to make-believe
a natural grotto hollowed from hillside quartz,
the cold eye of the sceptic quick to note
votive offerings of shop-bought flowers,
cheap statues, unlit candles dampening
in the grey drizzle. A place left to itself
most days, dear to the faithful who believe
salvation lives not in the act but the wish.