about a Friday that foretells a death,
where a revered man is nailed to a cross
with the scent of vinegar on his breath.
Dying he destroys our sins
is the story I’ve been told.
But what the story means to me
is a transforming that will unfold.
I had to explain, one random year
To an au pair of Easter knew nought.
So I explained that trust and hope and faith
can get lost in the cycles we’re caught.
We’re meant to believe that all will be right,
when cometh that sacred relief,
But when agony pricks the white of my eyes
I’m tumbling into my own grief.
Metaphor’s the cross, I know all of that
because problems resolve in their time.
Let it go, they say. Let fate do its work,
let your bum note again find its rhyme.