Wednesday, 7 April 2010

Good Friday in Spain

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.

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