The priest dressed in his mystic robes
Sprinkles the course with magic water
Calling down a benediction from on high
Not on the goaded beaten hounds
But to crush the memories of another time
Older by far than his god hanging on a bloody tree
Whispered in the pulse of the timid quivering hare.
The moon and the dawn, love and life,
Death and resurrection, is this gentle hare,
Carrying in her bones the secrets he abhors
Who would tear the heart from all the wonder and the magic in the world
And make it echo with his hollow words.
The priest is satisfied with his muttered rites
Presses his scapulars of destruction to his lips
When with a woman’s voice she cries, the hare
As her heart’s blood seeps back into our holy ground.
Jane Dougherty Writes 