Palm Sunday 2017.

This avenue of trees
has become a cathedral of blossom,
a surge of white waves
high arching above us,
but never tearing the cliff face,
or crashing on the shoreline
in a roar of dissolution.

This avenue of trees
should be shading your running
as you sprint through the park,
football in hand,
no thought for the hospital
where you now lie sleeping,
your pale skin raw,
a veil torn by fire.

I sit by the lakeside
dreaming of you,
a child of the wild wood
danced by the west wind,
and grieve that my old hands
cannot mend the torn veil,
extinguish the flames.

The cathedral of blossom
is blown into fragments
by the wind that brings summer.-
White petals are tears
swept up by the gardener
as he clears the wide paths.-
When the tears have all gone
you shall walk from the hospital,
eyes blinkered but laughing.

Your birth was a miracle,
sister to Lazarus
born out of a darkness
that we thought was forever.
But were you born into pain?
There is no solace in nature
while the pain drags you backwards
out of the light.

This avenue of trees
spreads long cold shadows
as day turns to evening.
It is time to go home;
switch on the computer;
read through every message;
sit quietly and wait.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 9th. 2017.