stones fall in rivers to her leather-strapped feet
thunder from earth and far beyond sky
she weeps, coughs, as dust grits her teeth
faces the eastern hill and sees the sun rise
Easter
Portobello Beach Easter Monday
Smoke-like curtains of rain sweep across the Forth, stopping short of the sand. People frown across at Fife, exchange worried glances. Buggies are turned away from the wind. Men in kilts have their Marilyn moments. Chips catch sand. Ice cream drips onto woollen gloves. And then the rain arrives.
Eating the lamb
They eat the lamb in memory. Bloodied and rare or crushed-almond sweet; both
are their worship. Chocolate eggs, a grinding of salt, lemon zested on the
grater. Rabbits; pictures of rabbits. Those things are theirs.
They shall never be accepted.
We eat the lamb in memory. Bloodied and rare or crushed-almond sweet; both
are our worship. Chocolate eggs, a grinding of salt, lemon zested on the
grater. Rabbits; pictures of rabbits. These things are ours.
They shall never be forgotten.
Your nails dig deep
Your nails dig deep into my hands
We are scared, but trusting, shiver
All is for the best and all will be well
Sirens call the people
The lights of the aurora fade in the sun
and then a sudden darkness
The stone is pushed with silent force
Dirt, torn fingers, scarring
The light again, the screams, the silence
Nobody breathes. No-one says the word.
Hope, hope again
Good Friday I eat passion fruit.
Seeds crack
between my teeth
and I swallow sweet.
Hope, hope again
above despair.
simonsalento 