Palm Sunday
By Niall Twohig
The wind whips up eternal
as if it’s blowing down the eons
blowing from some ancient place
past Ierne, past Ma-I, past Jerusalem
to find me here,
at this virgin point,
where I experience Palm Sunday
my first in forty years.
No need for mass today,
as I see her slender trunk sway devotionally
her fronds greet the wind ecstatically.
No need for mass today,
as I hear the sacred whipping up,
whipping up, whipping up,
in this wind blown down the eons
in this wind blown from some ancient place
past Ierne, past Ma-I, past Jerusalem
Past a land become Golgotha,
past a land stuck on Good Friday,
past a people crucified,
to find me here, next to them,
in this virgin point.
I am but a thief.
I am but a thief.
And when will Easter come?