Tin Cathedral

You wouldn’t be the first to make a start
In someone else’s shed. I’m thinking Jesus
Headlining a stellar cast of geezers
Whose homeless births would set them so apart:
Romulus and Remus, baby Moses.

Those mangers, wolf dens, river baskets where
They kicked off tough but huge careers and turned
Disadvantage to fame? Yes, I learned
My history, though I can’t yet see you there.
But nor could they, I’d say. I’m not concerned.

Two generations back your forebears made
A bush start in a galvo shack like yours:
Streaked iron roof and walls, crushed rock for floors,
A kero heater, but no summer blade
Overhead to fan them. Gaps in doors

And windows welcomed spiders, snakes, and drafts.
They shared it with a stove, a Chevrolet,
A bed, two armchairs, tools. I came to play,
A grandchild too, in a palace crammed with crafts.
They built a house. It was my church. I’d pray

My infant worship had no gods beyond
That tin cathedral. But prayers could not renew
A stroke-cursed life. And now we’ve built for you
A shelter in ourshed, and so the bond —
Half-historic, half-parented — holds true.

ROGER G McDONALD