Not Just Any Sunday
Sun, 27 Mar 2016
Easter Day; an afternoon’s
hard digging behind me, glance up –
two lapwings splice an ocean of lapis lazuli.
Squarish wings flap fast – ‘Peewit’ they mewl,
each to each, as, unashamedly, they flirt
as they flit as they fly – now as one.
On the horizon, a kestrel trawls
a mackerel sky; nothing more I need – right now,
but this moment.
Above the green-sand ridge, a zealous sun,
slowly succumbs to journey west
toward sanguine climes,
and I sense an awakening – palpable,
a sudden short, sharp, slap on my derrière...
take that first, sweet breath, over again
whilst a day-weary moon, dogs me –
at my shoulder all the way to the backdoor –
then calls it quits – far too soon.
Inside, a glass of Chardonnay,
freshly poured; by green-baize settee –
a votive, newly lit, and a book – his,
Italian Made Easy.
No translation needed; Genesis the same
in any language. All’s been said, by a candle
and the light it shed.