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ANNE SHIMMINS

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Good Friday

 

Praying for me, the people up the road

In urgent supplication

Want God to know

That I am worthy.

Misguided, yes.

But needful

Of intervention, care, compassion.

I slink shame-faced

To shelter in ti-tree:

Such sad confusion

Not knowing where to look

Or what to say

Except some flushed inanity.

 

Praying for me, the people up the road

Expose me.

I am the wounded gull

With drooping wing.

The Nautilus lost squirming from its shell,

Bewildered city bride

Who cannot know

Proper country ways, safe certainties:

The parsimonious use

Of water and fairmindedness,

Both in short supply

This autumn

Of my crucifixion.

 

Praying for me, the people up the road

Find grace

And I am burdened, Judas-like,

Wanting to be saved,

Made whole in some way,

Gathered in.

I know it cannot happen.

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ANNE SHIMMINS is a painter. Close to elderly, eccentric enough to enjoy a relatively remote island life made companionable by husband and cat. Relatively new to writing.