Long coat of black and collar white,
blue eyes asquint against the light,
each breath a fog fading from sight.

His pockets deep, damp hands within
now clutching tight the proof of Sin,
smooth surface cold against his skin.

His destination lies ahead:
The rectory and quick to bed
to pray for sleep to calm his dread.

But now the wind becomes a gale
and from the heavens stinging hail
pelts down upon his concrete trail.

As clouds above where once were none
blot all remaining trace of sun
the ancient preacher starts to run.

His graceless gait is without speed
and in the gloom he fails to heed
the slick of ice which does the deed.

The nuns will find him in the morn’
and too will find the shame he’s borne
once from his fingers guilt is torn.

For in his frozen grip they’ll see
the demons he had failed to flee
in little Johnny’s rosary.