The difference
deferring
makes.
Stuck in this womb,
waiting for birth from this earth.
This womb with a view,
remembering you;
Re-membering you
before my eyes.
I visualise
Your body, your face,
that giggle
that grace…

This hope would have preferred
to not be referred
to a third day
as it fights fitfully for
dreams
in this second night,
sick of its own light
waiting for what might…

To behold
To be whole
To hail infinity,
letting each minute be
hours.
Ours.
Conquering space and time
reason and
the way things have to be,
for a kiss.
But we watch on, resigned,
that the plane we miss will tow
no mistletoe-sign behind.

No, that journey of a day
is like a thousand years
from that morning of fears
after mourning and tears.
They’d seen the worst occur,
Prepared the myrhh,
Confirmed death
with their hands;
swathing in bands
the hope of the universe.

They wanted at least
to make its packaging smell sweet;
their hearts grown sick
by the smell
of hell.
Silently, how silently,
they’d wrapped this gift of heaven,
take from under
a once-green tree,
now decorated in ribbons of red.
The land of the dead
imprisons this Head
of Creation,
now crowned in cloth
here, with rust and moth
destroying.

The linen
made you feel so far away
as it covered your face
from the eyes of that day.
But the distance?
Not even as thick as the cloth;
the wrath
of love
would frustrate that glove
leaving it to lie empty
like words on stone.
And instead, go ahead
resurrecting the dead.
And with him,
our hope.