Boys and their Guns!

A moment of madness (some would say -
or childishness, or sacrilege - but I
know what I am about).
Assembling my trusty ray gun
(it's parts distributed around my pockets).
You'll never guess
what this ole boy's supposed to be:
my silent challenge to the world of faith before
I let the grand ole stone work have it -
straight between the eyes.

{WHAM!} {BAM!} {POW!}as they put it in the comics.

Before the stonework, though, the reredos -
all those fine carvings that the priest adores so much
(and I have never really understood),
a pool of molten butter on the floor.

O.K.. Test successful. Down to business.
Another burst. The great East Window goes.

Likewise after supper he took the cup...
the priest goes on, oblivious
to the Joseph Chapel's sad demise,
not to mention the transept 
and part of the clerestory...

...and when he had given thanks...
but I am Biggles in the Orient; Dick Barton, Special Agent,
and a host of secret operators
charged with scything weeds -
for that's the way I see it now:
I'm scything down the weeds
to see the big wide world out there like fields of corn.
This do in remembrance of me... 

And as the towering weeds collapse,
what corn I see!
A row of terraced houses
(condemned before the war),
the paint and varnish factory
(burnt out a month ago),
an avenue of lime trees
(black as soot and  almost dead from lack of care).
The people are invisible -
except I see them now in stark relief,
redrawn by what the brain can do
when faith allows imagination to catch up.

That's better eh? The golden corn has room to breathe,
the dog can see the rabbit,
the priest has sight of those he thought to serve.
He's suddenly among the dispossessed.
..............................................................

Written for Victoria Slotto's prompt at dVerse ~ Poets' Pub: Symbolism