Thursday, 1 April 2010


Welcome to a market in Spain

where there’s a statue of Jesus at Easter

holding up one hand

from a thrown-cloak of red satin.

Close by – women statues - and a

carpet made of palms

where he treads in slow steps and

raises that left arm.

Everything seems new in late March:

he has a shining face,

gleaming and bright-eyed.

Around his fingers, a light touch

and I get the sense of heading into space

slowly – like in a crawl

with a bending neck; astride

his shoulders a cross, that’s all.

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