Eastertide

A cloud of polished steel hangs over The village, hollowed eyed people Look up to the sky Where is spring this year? Like the man on the bridge they can take no more. For Paulo, the old carpenter it was all too much, no wine could still his angst of not seeing another spring and his nightly screams echoed till dawn. Dogs barked his time was over hanging in the shed between his tractor and work-bench. This shook the village out of stupor No more waiting for what may never come, a pig was slaughtered its blood an offering to life itself. The feast lasted for days.