Friday, 2 April 2010

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
promised penances
and all the good intentions
so that unholy,
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.

1 comment:

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