“Papa slept well last night,” said Father John.
“I'm glad. He needed it,” said Father Peter.
“He takes too many audiences on
and doesn't warm his cassock on the heater.”
“He'll catch his death,” said John, with voice dismayed.
“He will,” said Pete, then both knelt down and prayed.

In silence and accordance with their law,
they freed their holy gowns of fast’ning rope.
Their pious faces looked towards the door
behind which lay the sacred, sleeping Pope.
They closed their eyes, raised up their humble chins
and asked to be forgiven for their sins.

The carpet which they knelt on was superb,
around the walls hung priceless oils in frames
and, on a mural, lots of latin blurb
described the picture, ‘Venus playing games’.
A golden fruit bowl rested on a table
and, next to it, a pewter Tower of Babel.

The silvers, bronzes, brasses, golds and chromes
were scarcely touched and all were very rare;
the kind of things one sees in stately homes,
but no restricting fencing rope was there,
no plastic sheeting draped upon the rugs,
protecting them from visitors and bugs.

The square outside pulsated with a throng -
an awful lot of Christian souls had come,
believing here was where they did belong
instead of in some small, unhallowed slum.
They came for absolution and the grace
of Mighty God’s appointed envoy’s face.

And Rome outside the Vatican was still.
The whole of Italy looked on, expecting.
The rest of Europe waited for the thrill
and all the world was thinking and reflecting,
‘Maybe the Pope, the holy man, is dead!’
But actually, the chap was just in bed.