Act of God

On a wet and windy Whit Sunday
(shameless in shades of grey)
I watch iridescent pictures on whitewashed walls
and wait for the Holy Spirit

I examine gallery-goers closely
for signs of fire on their heads
and speaking in tongues: yes,
there is strange language here
and colour too: people from every part

but not much action, nothing 
that could be mistaken for signs of drunkenness
despite the tired boxes of transformed water 
under the table

I leave space in my heart
in case the Holy Spirit comes,
but outside the unrepentant rain
is building a lake in the car park
and not for baptism

Some ducks arrive and claim ownership:
a tent is pitched in the tarmac
and children bring spades

A crowd gathers, and a passing television crew
records the monochrome event:

Inside the Holy Spirit comes unnoticed,
mistaken for a draught
from a half-open door

As I blink
pictures catch fire
just for a moment
so easy to miss

[written 15 years ago after an exhibition in a disused Norwich factory]