This day of anguished memories,
when dark descended,
and guilt and shame made writhe
the uncomprehending child,
eyes bowed, I’d wait for the storm.
Later, wiser, with eyes open to the world,
this god of death and suffering,
I laid to rest,
placed a poppy on his breast,
a yellow star.
This day, now,
I raise my eyes to the spring sky
washed with rain and sun-yellow,
let the wind blow away the shadows,
into the dust and sand of long ago deserts,
and watch the buds opening
on the water-wading alders.