GOOD FRIDAY

I was the pious priest who wished you dead.

I tendered silver pieces for the coup.

I was the thug who thorny crowned your head.

I was the terrorist who taunted you.

I was the guard who speared your helpless flank.

I gambled, drawing lots to steal your clothes.

I wrote the sign that ridiculed your rank.

I called out from the crowd in vulgar prose.

But there was one, Simon, who bore your cross

And thunderous young John who ran beside.

The contrite thief shared in the grief and loss

While countless faithful women moaned and cried.

Even Judas regretted sin’s demands,

Yet I avert my eyes and wash my hands.

Note: The picture is a portion of Arthur Boyd's

painting of 'The Mockers'.

FILM NOIR BEACH

The sea was grey today, the sky was black,

Like backdrop stills on fifties film noir reels.

Dark clouds hovered ‘round sea gulls on attack,

Swollen waves rolled heavy like iron wheels.

No fishermen dared test the coarse wet sand

And downcast walkers trudged their way back home,

While watchers sat in cars parked on the strand,

Counting the sets and pointing at the foam.

As brine fizzed frothy on each curling crest

In failing light an eagle cut the air,

Swooping through every swirl to catch its quest,

Before it soared on wind-fired wings with flare.

And then the freezing gusts cried out like prey

While rain pelted the shore around the bay.

APRIL

April’s mornings bring a still chill to air

That makes slumber so sound and dreams so deep

Before autumn’s tepid sunlight so fair

Shines bright enough to burst the bliss of sleep.

The skies of each day’s trek out of shyness

Begin with steely blue edged with those clouds

Primed wet to quench every garden’s dryness

Or else disperse as mists and shifting shrouds.

After high noon when breezes rise and stroke

There’s heat to warm the last of summer’s flowers

And golden fronds swish ‘round the silky oak

While hungry birds feed through long shadowed hours.

But then there comes the greatest show of all -

Cerise dusk swoops, hides daylight in its shawl.

A reminder to readers in the Northern Hemisphere:

Australia is upside down and our seasons are back to front.

UNCERTAINTY

What does it mean

If your deep dreams

Derive from land

That slew her soul?

How can you live

And hear her voice

In the soft tones

Of time's smooth toll?

Why does your heart

Beat loud and ache

While you writhe as

She rests in mire?

Where is the realm

Of you and her

And children born

Of sweet desire?

When did she know

All hope had flown

And left her lost

Hidden from sight?

Who sees her now

Embossed turquoise

From paradise

Once shining bright?

CHANGE OF DAYS

I was born facing far too far to go

But Thursday’s child is never merited

With any plan but that vaguest premise –

No directions can be inherited.

Each day I now stare at that vast blue plain

And count the creamy crests of froth and foam.

I try to see the break ‘tween sea and sky,

Asking if that blurred fracture is my home.

Wet sand around stubbed toes is comforting

And waves wash over wounds of wasted days.

The breeze kisses my face and tired eyes

Sun rays coddle the scars of old affrays.

One day I will venture away again,

When all high tides are low and big swells small.

But just for now I’m born of Wednesday,

Trapped by injustice’s cyclonic squall.

Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child must work for a living ...
(Nursery Rhyme, author unknown)