A lady in the parish once decided to ensure
that the Church’s ritual colours matched the underwear she wore,
and so at Christmas, Easter, and on Saints’ Days pure and bright,
the priest and congregation knew her underwear was white.
For all the Holy Martyr band whose precious blood was shed,
and for the feast of Pentecost, she wore the colour red.
In Advent and in Lent, the lady competently strove
to wear the penitential shades of purple and of mauve.
Good Friday was a solemn day, and so upon her back
she wore with pride – and some panache – a set of smalls in black.
At other times throughout the year her underwear was seen
to complement the natural world in various shades of green.
And then, on Maundy Thursday, (your indulgence I entreat)
they stripped the church of colours, so these lines remain
Besotted by her underwear, the vicar always knew
the colours of the Church’s year – he’d seen them through and through.
They brought a sparkle to his eyes, excitement to his life,
but judge him not too harshly, friends: that lady was his wife!