...and What the Bishop said.

Continuing with yesterday's prompt from Jingle Poetry - and maybe stretching it a little...!

Southwark,
the Cathedral,
and the nave is full.
Young people
and their parents
(mostly),

all in sober dress.
Only I am standing out,
the solitary poppy
in an endless field of corn,
the redness of my cassock
like a beacon to the world.
(Or so the priest had said.
He'd been insistent:
God demands it of you, David,
you are an altar boy,
and you must be confirmed as one,
you are a witness to the fact,
your cassock is a part of that.)

So God made me conspicuous;
prominence upset digestion and
a frightful pain ensued
along with constant rumbles
and deep-down forceful movements
of my frail tectonic plates.
Location made things worse.

Positioned at the very foot of
what became Mount Hermon,
looking up to see the Bishop,
scarlet robes aglow.
Transfigured, fired-up
as the sermon flowed,
he hammered out his theme.
Relentless repetition.
And every time he'd look at me -
I swear it -
straight and eye-to-eye -
and growl again,
the umpteenth time,
with ne'er a smile
how sinners feel discomfort
in the presence of the Lord!