He was elevated.
It was not for the purposes of admiration or acclaim;
a strange glorification.
The crudely fashioned wooden platform
is no pedestal.
What, then, shall we call it,
this instrument of shame and death;
conveniently named for its shape
rather than its purpose? No matter,
the two have been conflated
over the millennia.
There is, however, no convenience in death.
No, that is not true.
It is all a matter
of where you are standing.
Lifted from the earth,
three metres, four at the most,
anchored to earth’s rocks and dust
not by nails driven cruelly into timber,
but by cords;
willing ribbons of love.
© Ken Rookes 2015.