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Candia, you are not going to post another poem, are you?  Brassie said.  I

mean, how many have you written?  Maybe your public would like to know

how Augustus Snodbury is doing after his romantic disaster in Bradford

-on-Avon.

Well, it’s the school holidays, so we will have to report on the outcome in a

week or so.  Until then, the Muse dictates what is to be posted.

Oh, go on then, Brassie groaned.  What have you got for us now?

Just an Easter poem I wrote a long time ago, but-hey!- it’s topical at the

moment.

EASTER 1996

That week we ventured outside at midnight,

when a shadow gradually snuffed the moon,

till the reddened orb, deprived of its light,

stared like the Baptist’s eyeball. In high noon

we think the spotted sphere no longer there.

All the primitive tribes rise to my mind,

who must have viewed such an eclipse, despair

weighing stricken hearts. How they must have signed

to each other when they became aware

of its reappearance. So a small group

watched the waning of their Son as darkness

covered the earth, but they were to recoup

The Light of the World. This Easter I bless

the God of Heaven for resurrection,

looking to the sky for inspiration

through my cataract eyes. So inspection

of the new moon tends to celebration.

Astrological symbols directed

men to the babe. Lunar allegory,

which by most people would be rejected,

confirms for me the Good Friday story.

Most of the time I look through the wrong end

of the telescope; get a false picture;

let the neon town lights obscure my Friend;

forget he’s an omnipresent fixture.

He who controls the weather, cycles, tides,

is sometimes indiscernible through cloud;

never disappears, though he sometimes hides:

rises like Lazarus minus his shroud.

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