Pentecost

 

A strong wind blows on the day of rest.

Across the spaces the morning birds

Call with more urgency, the air their bleak perch.

The lake lies marred by grey clouds and trees,

Beneath its surface fish swim rapidly,

Their breath enlivened by the troubled waves.

 

Within man’s homes curtains bustle, a door slams,

But stillness pervades.

Thoughts of Sunday dinners, children watching TV,

Old men sitting backs far from the window.

 

I shall go outside this holyday

Across at the park the black children play

Hair blown, clothes torn, barefoot.

 

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