Sometimes a poem just arrives - not complete, but almost, like a design, or a drawing. Then with moulding and shaping, it kind of resolves itself. Other times, nope. just won't work. I've been working on one that starts "She sleeps, curled, like a dormouse" for over twenty years, off and on; the phrase came on seeing my daughter curled up in her cot (she is now 25...)
Anyway, here it is: It's still not quite right. But getting there.
This April day, warm with unseasonable sun,
Will fill your heart with joy; this Sunday is just starting.
Bright sky, pales leaves, fresh flowers. But don’t be taken in.
The clue is in the bitter wind cutting through your clothes.
This journey’s going nowhere. He might be riding now,
Over sacrifices of palms and cloaks thrown down along his road.
They’re all singing songs of welcome , waving, running by his side.
But very soon they’ll change their tune and call for him to die.
Then he’ll have to walk, Trailing his feet through the dirt and grime,
weighed down with pain and fear, sweat pouring off his face.
Those arms, once opened wide for healing and for blessing
Will now be wrenched, and nailed in place, for hurting and for killing.
How will it end? We know the answer. They do not.
Our sun will rise again. Their sky is black.
Good Friday 2012