The third Easter without you,
a complete cycle of the liturgy,
though the the black covered prose
of the Seventeenth Century
was higher in your affections.
Those amongst whom you sat
have now mostly left, gone,
to another congregation
where seasons leave no mark of change,
and where Easter flowers never fade.
I read William Trevor today,
the sadness of “Autumn Sunshine”.
Kindly Canon Moran left alone to cope;
you would have understood his country flock,
a people besieged by their times.
Sometimes the telephone will ring,
and I will pick it up; half expecting
I might hear your voice. Silly,
I know. Like waking in the morning
when, for a moment, the world has no pain.
You loved church on Easter morning,
the whites and yellows and gold of a world
filled with brightness and light and smiles.
Another year passed, another celebration come,
a day’s march nearer home.