Easter Sunday

Her auburn hair descended like a cloud,
A golden iconóstasis to shroud
The touch of trembling lips upon his feet.
With tears like rivers stained by nard and myrrh
She washed his calloused soles and horny nails.
Her sister Martha stricken like a stele

Of salt in fear, a bewildered stele
She sees without seeing, eyes clouded
By memories of foolishness, but nails
Had ripped her dreams of late, and pallid shrouds.
Aromas of her kitchen smelt of myrrh
A taint of death, disease and rotting feet.


The prophet felt the kisses on his feet,
The hot salt tears. They spoke of knives of steel
In local villages, an ominous murmur
That trailed the hero’s path, a dusty cloud
Of discontent. Beneath her auburn shroud
Of grief the woman prophet’s lacquered nails

Unconsciously portended savage nails
Which soon would stab the prophet’s hands and feet.
No brilliant canopy of light would shroud
Him from the glares as passing strangers steal
His nakedness. O’erhead the passing clouds
Like senseless grazing cows will neither murmur

Thoughts upon his plight nor smell the myrrh
And aloes of his tomb. But slugs and snails
of darkness drawn by putrefaction's clouds
and fumes will be the first to witness feet
Transfigured as the God of All steals
Into the corpse. A sudden shroud


Of glory lifts like sails aloft on shrouds
Of grace. The quaking earth and seas demur
With loud objections as the Son’s Day steals
Across the land. His hands retain the nails
of pain and ghastly wounds still mark his feet
but glory rising radiates the clouds.

The dewy clouds of morning bless the feet
Of woman-prophet bearing myrrh. The shroud
And nails remain with useless swords and steel.