Easter In The Cape Poem by Peter Merrington

These hot dog-days: seedpods crack like
gunshot, tin roofs glint and wink where
people sleep this autumn Sunday off to
summer’s fading. Those dreams of sand,
blue waters, breeze in the cotton tops,
eyes wide from jupiter’s great skies.

Now leaves crumble to confetti, lizards
curl among dry spelt. We doze, we
lie among the Sunday papers, images
of young London junkies taking flack,
Russian lap-dance beauties, stars in
Vegas, and the motor-racing bloods.

What end draws blinds on this hot day?
what cravings test thermometers, crank
the motor of the heart? Idle, smooth the
silver paper of dark chocolate and eggs.
Sprawl, straddled on your bed or sofa,
all love’s engines ticking over slowly.

Thirsty doves peck the pomegranate;
dogs wrangle, loll, and sleep. Way up
in this bluest haze there float the wings
of risen Christ, whose thorns are white
yucca, and pyracanth. And the streets
are silent, and Emmaus is a quiet hope.

March 2008