Victoria Williams: 0115

The vicar put a finger to his lips,
It was the journalist’s,
They kissed the candle-wicks into life,
The athlete’s onion tears,
And the nun blew her fringe away from her face,
Exhaling something for all of us.
I reach out, our eyes meet,
The crisp whisper of a brandy snap,
Goes unheard,
But then the director: No to-camera stuff in the dining room,
And I withdraw my fingertips from the screen.