Easter

Too well I remember the rotting palms,
Sodden in the storms of blood,
In the anguish after the fete and
The long silence which followed.

Memories were not consoling then.
Recollections flickering across the grasses of Galilee
Were swallowed by the walls and waves
Which kept us inside
Out of the way of guards and miracles.

As if the years were trampled,
Wheat under the feet
Of angry soldiers searching fools.

We did not dare remember. Think.
‘Do this in remembrance of me.’