Proselytizing atheist self-described,
found seat in busy pub.
Sitting alone empty chair opposite
I welcomed his company;
a stranger in this northern town,
I became audience for his exposition
on nature of non-existent God,
gods of any kind. What evidence?
Could believers show any hand
shapes universes other than movement,
random chance. “Brace up” he said;
chill wind stilettoed through swinging door.
Hearing these words, grateful
someone cared to seek meaning,
not cling to promise, sentiment,
shift perception for applause;
rather gaze into opaque mirror,
name darkness, despair.
Clouds covered stars when parting;
rain showers had begun,
streets had become rivers.
Returned swiftly to hotel,
dried off and went to bed;
long walk remained ahead.
From moment head hit pillow,
conversation like cave’s echo resounding;
all was logic; but element missing.
Afterwards love’s wanted hope
found fulfilment. There was
nothing explicable, predictable;
mystery created a greater whole.
© Phil Kemp 2026
