Ash Wednesday.

After the rain
had soaked my garden
The earth,
choked with rotting leaf mulch,
Black as dried blood,
Exhales
a rich sweetness of regenerated
                                            life
evolving deep in the saturated
                                   remnants
of mouldering vegetation.

Thus
the first signs of Spring,
Not hopeful yet,
but showing fragile symptoms
                                of new life
deeply entrenched
in the history
of this miniature
urban garden.

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday.
I shall kneel to be signed
With the burnt cross of repentance
At the dark edge of the altar.

Wood that was once green and windblown
Crushed into fragments then smudged onto
                                                 my forehead
By the priest`s cold thumb.

I shall look deep into my past,
The dark winter within me,
And I shall pray, while kneeling
In a haze of votive candles
Illuminating the icons,
That the pristine dawn of Easter
Shall be tumultuous with Lark song and flowers
and the innocent laughter of children.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 17th. 2015. Revised 22nd. February 22nd. 2015.
Shrove Tuesday.
New ending written January 20th. 2016.