Hailstones
By harrietmacmillan
- 334 reads
Since Good Friday, the bells have not rung and thus we wait,
Suspended in timeless silence, anticipating Sunday.
The morning brought scant sun but enough, just enough,
To light up and warm the swarms in the piazza as into the arms
Of the church they were propelled. The stomach of my tiny chapel
Full of the faithful, of visiting grandchildren, of swelling love.
Olive-wood faces in perfectly preserved suits orating their prayers
Every alleluia announced through loudspeakers into the square.
A choir of girls singing and joined by a chorus of crocuses and tulips
Adorning my altar. They have practised all week, and still do not hit
The right notes but its sweetness could outlast honey in a Pharaoh’s tomb.
Around me, the smell of a meadow. Top notes of narcissi.
Then after, in perfect communion, I see the families swirl and cluster
And break off into their own celebrations. I see great tureens of meat.
I see cakes soaked in Sambuca, and eggs larger than the children they are given to.
Here, the rosemary is fresher upon the roasted rounds of lamb
Than we know at home but I don’t get to taste anything much this year.
For a few days I live as the heartbeat of this haven of age and hope,
But after the Mass, I am something that everyone thinks everyone else has done.
In the end, no one remembers to. I could ask for an invite,
They are as welcoming and warm as forest fire, but I do not like to.
So this year, in my rooms behind the church, I dine alone.
As I eat my plate of pecorino and tomatoes, stale bread baked three days ago
I consider the diet of Our Lord in the desert. Still I long for your
Simnel cake, your mustard chicken. I long mostly for you.
The son is risen but the sun has died and hard against my window
Rattle the hello of hailstones.
I am lonely but that is only for the ears of you and God.
Perhaps tomorrow, I will resurrect and feel able to roll my own rock.
Tomorrow, if we find the weather is better,
We will travel into the mountains together,
And picnic for “Pasquetta”, but I pack a picnic for one.
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Comments
Expressive and beautifully
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