One-time Quaker Meeting House, Waterford. My poem written from 1971 memories of attending Meeting, radically different to liturgical denominations. There was a badminton court in a side room. What also drew me and others was the “real coffee” and biscuits after meeting.
top photo: Dora Kazmierak
On Sundays we students confidently strode
out granite gates and down the road,
boasting boys freely mingled, flirted
with fellow form girls, colourfully skirted.
No crocodile lines, no prefect chaperone,
our travels took us past the old stone
tower and family named quayside shops;
church bells, chimes from civic clock.
Meeting-house worship I explored,
silence loved, struck kindred chord;
sporadic homespun parables spoken
by either gender, the floor was open.
The Quaker-hallowed hush wooed
tenuous teen belief, God pursued;
meeting room simple, no decorative mark,
radial-arranged benches, spartan stark.
No hymns sung, no sermons spoken,
no wine drunken, no bread broken:
hardly religious, more like civics class –
after meeting Quaker coffee unsurpassed!
bottom photo: Garter Lane Theatre