The old Tenmile church house was postcard perfect
gleaming white with its tall spire atop the roof
the large brass bell hung proudly in the belfry
rough-cut lumber walls were ship lapped and painted
the building sat staunchly upon a small grassy hilltop

With a smidgen of imagination one can still hear voices
singing in praise to the Almighty on Sunday mornings
“Shall We Gather at the River”; and “I’ll Fly Away”
resounding from out the open doorway and windows

Behind the pulpit and scarlet draperies, the baptismal
where the community’s members sought purification
the preacher’s Hellfire and brimstone sermons echo
alongside the ghosts of churchgoers crying ‘Hallelujah’

Many years have come and gone their respective ways
since last I ventured to that holy place atop the hill
yet I shall never forget Sunday school there as a child
the wonder of after church picnics; of play and visiting

“Little White Church in the Wildwood”; does it exist ?
I shall not return there to answer my question…
I choose to remember how it was in that joyous time
Not how it might be now…….