A Winters Day
At that place
on that winter's day
branches soughing around my head
and twelve apostles at my back
moribund, almost frozen
kept alive by the heat
of a noonday sun
waiting,
waiting for that sign
when from the orb
came that screech from
an incandescent throbbing
tongues of fire and smokey clouds
soaring here and there
searing sight and
eliminating hearing.
And when it was gone
the twelve apostles were dead
the whole day
among the branches,
seeming to snore
in the daylight glow
and again at midday
and in the evening.
In the sun's heat indifferent
white and painful as
on a beach, soft gold and comfortable
under a southern sky
jewelled and besparkling
One mark removed
but left me
without asking us
which was better or worse.
It seemed hideously indifferent
as the branches.
Twelve dead apostles
at my back on a winter's day
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