Three Days of Easter

Saturday

Behind closed doors

we wait.

For what, we know not.

The Sabbath

this day to meet

and share our common life

now full of tears, fear

bewilderment

Will they come for us

our neighbours, the soldiers

will they turn on us as well?

We wait

Elation and courage evaporate

all brought undone

triumph to tragedy

in a matter of days

Behind closed doors

we wait.

We talk, weep, sit in silence

relive those moments

he said were coming

who could have known

that’s what he meant

I cannot sleep, I cannot eat

I can’t undo what I have seen

and heard, and done

Behind closed doors

we wait

talking in whispers

What do we do now?

Three Days of Easter

Last year I wrote three poems in haiku form for Easter, so thought I’d do something a little longer as I reflected on the days in Jesus’ life so central to the Christian message.

Friday

Friday dawned

sun cresting the hills

bathing the city

in golden light

Who could have known

this day would unfold

with unspeakable violence

Who could believe

such darkness could descend

the sun, the light of our lives

blotted out, taken from us

Who could have known

as this day began

it would reach its awful end

with such grief

shattered hopes

and utter despair

Autumn Equinox

Aaah, I can officially welcome my favourite season with open arms, not that I'm a fanatical purist, but I do like to wait until nature's calendar decrees the start of a new season before declaring it has really begun. The parched soil can ready itself to leave those baking temperatures behind and embrace the cooler months ahead as moisture returns, hopefully as deep as it needs to go in order for new life to be generated. It still feels far too warm to believe Autumn has arrived, but the poplars, which are always the first to let us know the cycle of seasons is once more marching on, are already tinged with yellow and shedding their first leaves. No matter what the temperature, their in-built clock says the time is right to begin shutting down as they lead the way for those who will follow with their vast array of colours. And with a full moon to light up the night sky I couldn't let the occasion pass without a little nod to this wonderful time of year.

I’ve succumbed to waxing lyrical

as my thoughts turn philosophical,

for I’m feeling rather wonderful

when everything is seasonal

and change is on the way

What seems quite unremarkable

by its very nature cyclical

heralds colour wholly magical

and invites us to be playful

in its bountiful display

For the full moon wholly spherical

making some go quite nonsensical

to me is boldly beautiful

altogether equinoxical

on this wondrous Autumn day

Soft Touch

It’s not unusual on any given day to find myself rescuing butterflies, as I have concluded their tiny brains simply do not have the capacity to conquer the intricacies of spatial relations. My back porch is a sun trap, with windows giving a view of the garden while also providing shelter from the wind, and it has become a favourite spot for butterflies, blowflies, wasps and dragonflies. Only problem is, the butterflies seem to have a dickens of a job working out how to exit the porch. The garden is there, right in front of them, they can see it through the glass, but rather than move the one metre it would take to head back where they came from, they will literally flap around aimlessly for hours until I put them out of their misery, cup them gently in my hand, and give them their freedom.

Spent a couple of hours on the couch reading a book when I caught sight of one in my peripheral vision. Thinking it was just passing the window I did a double-take when I realised it was inside, quite happy to peruse the lounge room and spend some time on the couch near my feet. However it came to be flutterbying inside I’ll never know, maybe it had learned a thing or two from the blowflies who hang around waiting for that split second when you open the screen door to slip in unawares. Whatever the case, I did the usual thing, scooped it up gently and headed out the back door.

Even when granted its freedom, it seemed reluctant to go. Walking up and down my hand, its touch barely noticeable, I thought it would be eager to take flight, but not so, content instead to wander round and round the palm of my hand. I had time to note its distinctive markings, and though just your common everyday garden variety butterfly, it sported a unique design worthy of any artist’s deft brushstrokes.

Finally walking to the tip of my finger, I thought take-off was imminent, but no. It turned back to face me, proboscis seeking out every morsel of salty sweat. Was it bidding me a final farewell? Of course not, but maybe somewhere in that minute butterfly brain it was aware I had saved it from what could have been a sad end, for it would have starved had it remained in the house for long.

Another ramble round my hand, the faintest tickle, then off it went, back home to tell of its dice with death and lucky escape.

Butterfly

walks my life line

past the Mount of Venus

strokes my heart line
with the softest touch

then takes flight

from my fingertip