Together, we march like frail
wheat brushed by breath
on the day that Jesus fell
- the Friday of his death.
A procession sways for an hour,
a thousand people strong
and an empty cross with flowers
suggests that he has gone.
It’s obvious - but still that old shock
of death, a rising sob, an ache,
until a group of women gossip,
yak, distract my mind in a race;
closing up my heart as we step
to the rhythm of a funeral pace.