GOOD FRIDAY
from the mist: the hills.
clouds attempt the memories of things,
but fail and find instead broad brightnesses.
there is birdsong in the valley (may there ever be),
and ravens in the cascading sky.
a wash of calling sheep, heading for food.
we feel the older weaving, thread-worn, familiar,
a whisper of what it was, (though still greater than us).
it is in the blood: this dying and longing and silence,
an intimation of the beyond coming closer,
the hidden web knotted together.
the sure, gnarled fingers of compassion,
patient Mother Spring
and the story of the son.
—
simonhlilly 