Good Friday

The daylight’s first-born, fleeting cry,wing feathers beating night-choked sky,pierced with its urgent songto rouse a drunken thief,who’s stolen time to find relieffrom prayers striking this morning’s gong.  Those caring tongues, both loose and free,that once mouthed endless time for me,pay lips to other clocks;their chimes pretending mindwill make the time safe hearts can’t findin busied lives snapped tight with locks. There is no prophet for this dayto curb the pain, or make life stay,just sense of death that bringsit’s knowing, sure, unkind,without history to rewindpast tapes this dying always sings. No resurrection now can come;no Sunday’s hope; no stone undone;no ageing, caring end;no fierce, apocryphal cryto speak one final truth’s goodbyeand turn each silent absent friend. But I have seen them all through eyesfar brighter than this morning’s skies;heard their words, drunk their breathand known their selfish dreams beforeanother foot had walked their shore.Our times of love still beggar death.