In a Village of Many Ash Trees

Palm Sunday 2014

the clock of St. Leonard will tell only

one time. Two minutes to eight.

It’s four-thirty,

a shattered sunlight catches on

gravestones, hides names from view,

keeps the late of this parish, secret;

causes you to struggle as you read their fate

in polished marble or mis-placed lead letters.

Sad tales of...

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For the third time

Peter.
Listening to the cockerel.
Again.
Waits as a tear develops
In his eye.
Kicking Love away to die.

He waits.
Floating.
Nowhere to go.
Except down.
This isn’t how He meant it to be.
But here it comes.
The mounting wave of pain.
Threatening.
Entreating Him.
To wave His arms
And save Himself.

This is drowning.
This is drowning
In the sea of the Cross.
...

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