A dear friend and I, one Sunday, ventured 
	along the Kīngitanga hilt to a halt then

up the path	
a door unlocked

	pews in rows of varnish
	& scriptures on podiums.

	Rays pooling luminous
	saints in rainbows

	of stained glass.
For a brief moment

glory.
Before an intruder alarm

	buckles the snares 
	of our ears so

	we cannot hear
	the good bell ring, 

	we cannot hear
	a fair chime for novice communion. 

	Not even silence
	is free anymore.

We left before 
state security could arrive 

to tell us to
or take us away.