The Burning of Judas
Lord, in this field among the porcelain
a cough betrays the faint stuttering flare
of a torch lowered by a hidden hand.
We come with upraised branches,
ropes in our hands, yet veil ourselves-
in the muted turnings of the innocent leaves.
Lord, the scent of olives brings to mind
the trees of my own Kerioth, and how once I
at twelve years could not stretch up
to reach even the lowest limb.
My brother would come to lift me up,
then, laughing, leave me hanging there
until supper: I remember how
when I was fourteen he fell from a scaffold,
his life, about his father's business.
His name was Simon, Lord.
Raindrops at my feet. The evening twisted,
ripping the clouds in two, sending
a damp gust to scatter in my hair.
Laughter and thunder and lightning flare
reverberate against the beat of rain
scourging the leaves
And the breath of olives.
Faces sweat beneath the heavy torchlight,
staggering my feet.
...................Where are we now?
When we were children, laughing in the fields,
we spent our days running after summer,
the other seasons left behind.
Lord, this was a long time ago -
the boy running along the path to what, to this?
Here is the garden, the trees, and the night.
We can see only the leaves shifting,
at the first step, cut by a shard of rock.
The head turns at the shake of a stone
tumbled from its cave hollowed in the dust.
The night by now has crept into Kerioth,
tired of its dark dominion, invading the sky.
Quickly, I will do it quickly
Dog-toothed, sharpened in the May night;
a ravenous tiger the leaves crouching,
devouring our shadows