Holy Week and Easter 2020
A Series of Free Compositions
Palm Sunday. At the park early this morning no one yet.
Still sunshine. Coronavirus has stilled the traffic.
Somewhere beyond the trees
two male woodpeckers compete and converse
across the luminous green-blue space
of sky and quiet football pitch.
Good Friday morning.
I put on a dark shirt, old aftershave,
the sky steady blue
in Coronavirus stillness.
The sheer evergreen in the garden
reaches beyond the dark roofline opposite.
Holy Saturday clear sun,
the path worn into the grass outside the fence
where people with dogs can still walk now
uneven, dry, brown-orange underfoot
but broken open
in the Coronavirus quiet
and birds in the big still bare apple tree squabble.
Life goes on open to warmth and suffering.
Waiting for an answer to prayer is more than an untestable idea.
The shadows have shortened now
in the back garden and on the fields beyond.
Park bright yellow-green
gate swinging. It’s Easter Day.
One shiny crow stock still.
A patch of unstintingly blue sky
out of the kitchen window
is cut by the white windowsill.
Pain may take a long time.
It is not mere formalism to trust the forms of life,
the glass vase full of wilted purple flowers
three days after Easter.
By the white house a bee moves jerkily from pink daisy to daisy,
It’s easy to feel you and all things useless.
I’m jolted from reverie by something tickling my arm:
a cloud of dandelion spores floating
radiant, joyous, glorious.
Clear May Day — and St Joseph the Worker’s Day — and sun shines over
broken arcs of dark tree boughs
and deep blue sky,
the many-coloured blur of passing cars,
glistening dew and residual rain,
the divets and ruts in the dirt path aruond the fenced playpark,
For a moment
we look on through the trees.