Easter Sunday

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.

TS Eliot: East Coker



A month of Easter Sundays? Two months
And more besides in my short life.
A sticky mess of chocolate memories
And unfulfilled resurrection prophecies.

Yes I grow old, and wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
That’s what you do in our garden of Eden.
Where everything but here and now ceases to matter

The wing flutter of the collared dove
Is itself like birdsong. A jay swings upside down
Whilst butchering a fat ball meant for tits.
All is well in our imperfect world. 

Justin Dix: No Resurrection Needed