The procession advances, lowers down
the cross of the humble Christ
treads on the flowers
scattered along the pathway
by women’s reverential hands.
Crushed petals mush
with mud left by the brief rain
that sweet-scented the air.
Children rush, resigned,
to kiss the Lord’s feet,
men chat between small sips
of white wine, eat
fresh baked brioche, white sugared almonds,
lay the bell and the bag of coins,
tinkling together, on the linen tablecloth,
Men’s faces reddened by the sun,
or by the sacred steps,
foreheads sweating from the march,
purple surplices matching the day,
the inevitable rainfall.
Further away down the road,
the hiccupping noise
of a motorbike.
Bells tolling in the distance slice with joy
the graveness of this day. The
day when Jesus
rose from the dead,
glory to His Name, to his Kingdom,
glory to all who follow Him.
Lord Jesus, now that You came
to visit me, let me ask You
for a share in this peace covering the fields,
the infinitely far-reaching silver green fields,
only a share in this peace
guarded by the vast stillness
of the afternoon.