April 17: Easter week

 Unless the grain of wheat die.

I stretch out my hands to a
finger-tip touch
with you, and you and you.
Support offered
though a sliver of pain slides down my spine
as the hard shell of the seed is burst.

New Earth?
New Life?
not yet - old debts hold hard.
Hear the cry of the poor
Which poor? which cry?
So many voices, so many needs,
so many vulnerable seeds
falling on rocky ground
so light the falling
drowned by the cacophony of sound.

Scarlet, scarlet is the pain. Raw, raw the anger
of lives held in disdain.

Now, in the breaking shell.
Now, may be the moment of birth
Not yet the movement of white filament root
Earth waits, holds seed in hope.

Anne Hine rscj
Province of England - Wales