The season for salvation
came and apparently passed
with no-one noticing.
We were distracted, captivated
by the wonder and glory
of the collective reflections
in our gazing pool. There is darkness
all around, still it does not bother us
whilst there is even the palest light;
flickering, yet sufficient to see our own
beautiful but blinkered eyes.
There was, supposedly, a season
for repentance, too;
but for that to be effective
there needs to be an acknowledgement
of the reality of the darkness,
and we would rather not know.
Anxiously feigning bravado,
we gather in our harvest
and boast about its yield,
blissfully unaware of its bitter nature.
The summer has ended,
and our time of harvest moves
inexorably to a Narnian winter,
wherein we will whisper the rumours
of Gilead’s springtime promise
with yearning, tears
© 2010 Ken Rookes
Another poem for Sunday can be found here.