Twenty chairs and a candle,
Open door, collection plate, tiny.
Icons on every wall space
And closing behind me the loose handle.

No one came in, no one left
But it was clearly tended
Discreet, private, even secret
But still of worshippers it seemed bereft.

We went in to explore and look
A glass entrance lobby, a sort of nave
Corridor for a short procession of
One holding aloft his orthodoxy.

Monthly, occasional or never
Hard to tell from the lack of activity
But clearly with a sole worshipper
It survived the seasons – clever.

Private worship, multiple devotions
But outcomes or purpose nil
So it seemed to the visiting eye.
And as we left it sighed in relief.