‘This is the church and this is the steeple.
God bless, inside, all the little people.’
Her grandmother’s rhyme that she could recall,
with hands and fingers shaped, so see it all.
And here’s Todmorden Unitarian
at hand but, of course, huge compared to them.
Pointed. Its tower tall and narrowing.
Two fingers stretched, touching, interpreting.
On a base, long and strong, interlocking.
Both sets of digits securely docking.
The grip tight, made to infer the whole thing.
Finally, inverted, the fingers spring.
And that’s the local folk, there all the time.
At least, imagined, in her grandma’s rhyme.