Holy Week III: Easter Sunday

I'm still trying to put myself in the way of a new poem, creating space to wait on inspiration, which alas is rather slow in coming and keeps being crowded out by fish dentaries and Faure's Requiem. That aside, here's the third and final instalment of the Holy Week sequence.

Easter Sunday

Coffee and biscuits. Pistachio nuts.

Pachelbel’s Canon. Small moments of grace

between Monday’s appointment and the afternoon run,

One sun-streaked table, one quiet café.

Though the jeans are still frayed; the mascara’s still smudged;

Though 2a.m. nightmares have rubbed you guilt-raw,

Still the bread and the wine and the grip on your hand

Still promise the wounded to get up and walk

and the life that lives in you refuses to die.

The fragrance of spices wakes memories in you

- dazed and uncertain, at the edge of words,

Off-cuts of joy and the empty tomb.