Easter 2017

The White Tree

In a broken land a tree stood white and barren against the light 

clean and sinuous the dead branches curved through the sky

Graceful elegant dead

Left untouched by all around no nest of any bird to disturb its simplicity.

Clean unhurt by life only the rain casts an occasional grey cloak over the bole of the tree

Graceful dead elegant

No hole of woodpecker no visible sign of decay the white tree changes not with season

winter summer still it stands unmoving in the wind that tears down living trees nearby.

Dead graceful elegant

Dead is the tree dead are its children no seed sprouted under those boughs

dead is the man nailed to that white tree dead is the heart of his mother.

Dead twisted broken

He is taken down,  his blood stains the white tree,  soaking into the dead wood.

The man is taken to a tomb cut from the rock, a stone covers the entrance.

Dead, stained, hurt

The storm rages,  the rain falls, the stain on the tree unwashed,  night passes, day passes, night,

women come to the tomb,  the stone is not blocking it,  the body of the man is gone

Dead, fear, confusion

A crying woman, a man walks from behind the tree, she looks and cries for joy

she runs to find friends,  the man touches the tree, and is gone

Dead? What! How?

The sun falls on the tree, and leaves open to welcome the light,  its graceful shape confused

The foliage scatters the light hiding its elegant form, birds alight on it’s once pristine branches

Living, life-giving, hopefilled.

Mark Ieuan Johnston,  Easter 2017