Easter is late this year, though the ash is still bare,
while on the hawthorns the leaves are bright;
Gragareth looms faintly through the haze in the distance,
awaiting revelation from the morning light.
I could take my ease on the grassy bank in the early sun;
later, the stones poking through would slowly appear;
and later still the ants that come to bite and eat.
Peace and suffering intertwine around here.
The three telegraph poles with their long trailing wires
form three odd crosses, though no-one’s hung on there to bleed;
but there’s no denying God and Jesus
sit deep in my being, if not in my creed.
I could ride from here in any direction,
as though I understood the sacrifice of the son,
but there’s years of practice still to do;
in truth I’m very far from done.