I’m chapel really!

I’m chapel really!
Four timeless walls
Battered by the wind.
A bell, the call to worship,
Cwm Rhondda and Blaenwern.
King James’ version
on the eagle’s wings.
Pews burnished with rumps
of modest worshippers.
A pulpit with a tester,
The font a hollowed stone;
A coffin trestle and
A field for burial,
And through plain glass
God’s handiwork.

Of course I like a choir
Rich purpled glass
and charming kneelers;
‘The Message’ read
in modulated tones
and faith decoded for
the Guardian-reading
Waitrose-shopping
laissez-faire.
But I’m chapel really.