Easter Poem by William Fay

I.

A too long and troubled winter;
Then, almost Easter, too late in the season,
This sudden blast of snow,

And phantom shapes loose in the wind,
Back and forth, back and forth,
Across the field and frozen lake.

It is you in the wind, lost one,
You pale face and icy stare;
The blue colour of sadness.

It is you in the wind, coming home,
Through the black trees, to knock
At the door, upon the frozen window.


II.



All day I have heard
The uncertain song of the shivering bird;
All day the starved fox barking.

All day reports of impassable highways,
And abandoned vehicles,
Of death upon the white road.

Then the slow crunching step,
At twilight,
Of the weary shepherd and lank collie
Returned from the top hill.

Remember, our good shepherd,
The haunted forever crossroad
And twisted tree,

Where you pulled from the wreck,
Your hands burning,
The surviving, orphaned child.


III.


And us children, in Spring, wearing
Gas masks, reclaimed as playthings;
The age of the chugging daffodil yellow
Post Office van,

And the patient waiting,
To connect the rented humming line;
Of locks upon dials and the souvenir
Knock pilgrimage coin box;

Of tin cans pierced, then strung,
Ear to mouth,
Through the barn, across the lane;
Filling that day with an oily smoke.

Then the swineherd's boy, sent racing,
Across fields, the hound chasing,
Through gaps in the hedge and lengthening corn,
To St Hubert's, to use the vicarage telephone.


IV.


Today eskimo children upon the hill
Shaping in snow their winged forms,
Reminds me of our seated regiment,
Watching the Coronation year footage
Of Everest conquered and heroes return,

And our playful hands eager and ready
Casting giggly upon a bleak screen,
The rabbit leaping and bird in flight,
The black claw swooping;
Then, chairs scraped, our selves rising
Blurry and bobbing hushed toward exits.

Like your movement in the snow fall,
In the wind,
Dancer between darkness and light,
Your winged form drifting, like us all,
Toward a frozen, snowed in house.

Now wait, shepherd upon the hill,
Wait my white angel, by the tomb:
Lift away the stone.
Give me the door to spring,
Give me the sunlight,
The green hill bright with colour.