Easter Sunday. Warsaw. 2018

Easter Sunday. Poem. Picture

 

they could be a line of Pilgrims

stretched on the flat horizon below

an amorphous sky clinging damply to heaven

back-packs and offerings in step

eager with votive desire to blend into

the city landscape where

everything is closed

except the churches

open minds

and hands

craving chocolate

Later, as night claims the shadows

the municipal facade of a building

is washed in reverent light;

a better man would know the Pope,

so travellers are never left in doubt

the insistent summons

carrying on into the night

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