Elderly cherry and sweet apple trees spread their canopy of blossom,
this Easter Sunday ninth of April, offering the hopefulness of spring to the faithful,
among the headstones across God’s acre in an ageing church yard.
The congregation watch as the priest moves steadfastly among them,
a caring figure clad in cassock and surplice, smiles at the end of his Easter service,
tries to comfort a flock with fading hope as times turn ever hard.
These are dangerous days, a mother pulls children close to her bosom,
no spring in a step en route to the food bank, there are no words to be quite frank,
disappointment over how life could be, leaves us all deeply scarred.
A warm home not mouldy damp, a bed for all, food that’s wholesome,
trapped by poverty, abuse, neglect, the knife; surely to god that is no sort of life,
there is a season for every person under heaven, let none be barred.
A. McTiernan