Easter (Again)

Easter (Again)

I remember you have talked about the past with gleaming eyes.
Then, you claimed, things happened. Then, it was easy. Men
slid calloused soles into their oxhide sandals, goatskinned water
and walked into the desert; others wrapped themselves in fur,
tight-thonged
their leggings and pushed into the sea. They read the stones, stared
stars
into submission, went mad, met God. Women, meanwhile, gave birth,
tortured
their children with an anguished love. Some chose the nunnery
to join God's harem. All found their way. But now we live in quiet
days.

Though nowhere is there silence. Even here a pile of words lie
on my desk, speaking of things that can't be known. In two
weeks time, God will be killed again. Seas heave; winds blow.
Angels boom from fiery tracks across the wretched sky. A village
drowns. (Next door, a scraping on the walls and footsteps fall
along the heated corridor. Throats clear as preludes to
farewell).
Two thousand years ago he pushed away the stone, ripped off his
shroud,
and terrified the mourners.

Things happened then: you said. Now we have repeats.
A tongue of bread, the merest hint of wine, and Sunday best
softens the rituals into meaningless. But listen to the shifts
and shuffles in the dark, the sliding of the sea, the whispers
in the walkman, the end-of-record clicks, and hissing as the
programme
dies.

The gods walk stealthily and resurrect (as usual) from the shroud.