kilcullen easter

 

the lambing time

evanescent leaves

provincial poets stitching worn out rhymes

into patchwork quilted semaphores of praise

all of these

mist like matting on muddy fields

old men rejoicing in  campaniles

heart breaking heart mending threnodies

everything that breathes is on its knees

for the coming of the lord

peace

heelers agonistes

 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, racked by pain.

My eyes turn to a photo of a tree hung on the wall.

The photo was taken by an aunt.

Sometimes when I look at it the pain ebbs a bit.

So it is today.

As the pain ebbs I feel an intimation.

My pain is caused by resentment.

"Oh for heavens sake God," I cry aloud, " if that's the case, I won't be able to write anything."

In my heart, I imagine I hear God replying: "Do you want to write anything or do you want to walk?"