Easter Poem

Amongst all that I have failed to forget,

here is the story I recall most vividly:

Easter morning, Auntie, hands behind back,

told us to leave the cardboard egg-trays,

stacked like shields on shelves in the scullery,

and pick up baskets she’d tied with posies;

then she ordered us out of the farmhouse.

We charged up the hill to the low metal shed

already warming in April’s gentle sun;

we remembered not to run in the battery,

for shrieking hens would peck each other.

There was kindness, for on rough wooden

tray nailed beneath pale, thin feet, eggs

had been taken, painted and replaced for Easter.

When we got back to the farmhouse, Auntie,

radio on, still washing her hands in the sink,

said we three were like little soldiers.

Did we not sit on the floor, throwing dice,

swapping eggs of purple and scarlet,

singing along to the popular songs,

heedless of those beyond the fences?

At Easter, let’s acknowledge the cruelties

that sustained our privileged acts of kindness,

trusting in what may comfort or haunt us:

that those we unknowingly tortured and killed

are risen, though wounded, still scarred,

calling us to meet lovingly again,

and with the folks in the village,

confess, forgive, keep faith in our goodness.