SANCTUARY

by Catherine Smith (Oxford)

In what was once a Greek Revival Church, visitors drop by - drink coffee, read papers; laptops glow like fish-tanks in subdued light. They step out of the restless world, seeking sanctuary. Above the bar, sunlight’s trapped in rows of iridescent bottles; Blue, Red, Green.

Each stained glass window is part of a story; here's a pale, serious infant on his mother's lap - God was made manifest in the flesh. Friends kiss each other's cheeks, talk rapidly in Polish. Voices bounce off wood, melt into plaster. Salvation hath appeared in all men.

Once, the apprentices from the nearby printing press were bought here every morning before work to pray. Imagine their thin coats, rough hands as Jesus spread his hands wide, gazed down on them. He opened his mouth and taught them.

A glitter ball hangs, motionless, from the lighting deck; stubs of church candles sprout along storage heaters. Here’s a huge vase of lilies; they give off a lush scent, stand proud, their dark red, sticky stamens poking out like rude tongues.

What Catherine Smith says about SANCTUARY: