Blood and Moss
Good Friday night, and haunted by the cross
The body in the darkness sends the mind
To go out searching for him. Blood and moss
The crown of thorns around his head defined
By lightning striking sudden through the rain -
The mind goes down to town, the Market Place
The Brittox, St. John's churchyard, Morris Lane
No sign of him - the blood and moss - his face
He isn't here. He was though. Oh you wish
The demon laughs, and disappears behind
A dustbin, leaving smells of rotting fish
And doubt and disappointment in the mind
He's not in Wetherspoons, the angel said
Be not afraid, and go back home to bed
© Gail Foster 29th March 2024
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