Page 188 - Eggs and Ashes pages

Good Friday 187

struggling up steps,
ducking through doorways,
lit by flickering lamps
each of which belongs
to a separate denomination.

A structure oppressive with power,
marked out into territories,
guarded by monks:
gloomy acres of space
patrolled by clergy in robes
and tour guides with worried flocks.

But what is at its heart?
Where would the people of God gather
who stray through the gloom
longing for meaning?

Such a pompous place,
such a weight of sadness,
so much history,
such disconnection
from what is happening in the streets –
such terrifying emptiness.

Why do we search for the living among the dead?

The flowers of the field

The poppy, the anemone –
blooming now after the spring rains –
they are different,
but both are as red as blood:

scattered across hillsides
where settlers’ children play,
cared for by teachers carrying guns;

fragile among the rubble
where bulldozers groan
and fatherless children throw stones;