This goes alongside today’s Gospel reading, and last year’s Easter walks.
We walked the fields and woods on Easter day, Considering the flowers: bluebell, gorse for Edward Thomas, Campion for the martyr, David’s daffodils; and for Christ’s Mother, Lady’s Smock, a blue-white garment. For himself? I see him rising, feeling each rib, gingerly Easing the circle of thorns from his brow to spin it High and higher out of his ken, to Paris: Disputed relic but reverenced for his sake. His feet have stopped bleeding. He can walk Across the grass without pain. Almost. ‘Mary, Please, please; do not touch me; not just yet, But tell them all, I’m going North to Galilee. ‘Oh, and Mary: just a dab of your oil on my brow. The scratches sting, but I find I’m healing like a babe, As Lazarus did last month when he came forth. Time now to take a walk, to find my legs and feet again. ‘My feet are fine, thank you Mary. Go to Peter now, Give him my message, tell him what you’ve seen And rub his brow too with oil to firm his courage. I’ll see you by the lake, if not before. Now for my 'Walk. I feel my legs can take me far, without Tiring. Those scars are not pretty but who looks At feet, except a salesman selling shoes, Or serving man with water, soap and towel? Or you.’ . . . Who is that ahead? I should know the gait of Clopas and his friend, red Isaac, expecting a kingdom by the sword. ‘What are you saying on your way? Now, listen With your eyes and heart. Consider the flowers of the field. Do they toil and spin? No, all they have is gift of sun, and rain, And red-tailed bumble bee, loving them into growth And fruition. The grain of wheat has fallen. Stay with me My friends. Take and eat my given body. Stay with me.