A poem for Good Friday

"Our winter is the hiddenness of Christ" (Saint Augustine)

I step outside and feel the breath of rising song,

the spawning pond and budding trees
and ripening promises.

The rising sap dispels the chill of winter gloom

and make my dead bones dance

to springtime's tune.

Each day this week I've woken huddled underneath

the blanket of the season

and its wrong,

the heavy load of morning
weighing me down,

my spirit drained beneath

my penitential gaze

inhabiting a frozen world where prayer

is shrivelled

cold as death

and faithfulness

betrayed,
promised penances
unmade

and all the good intentions

gone

so that unholy,
unprepared,
I come again

to Calvary.

And yet,

sweet grace,

today the seasons break the rules,

yellow springtime giggles at this sombreness,

anarchic nature rises up
defiant in the face of death,

and crazy jubilation steals my mourning
with a kiss.

So here, beneath the laughing sun,

I spread my soul

and breathe my fickle promises of love,

scattered seeds of springtime hope

that drift and blow
and maybe find a space to grow

within my winter world.

Tina Beattie.