The road continues.
The path beyond
the palm strewn entrance,
the angry
violence of the temple courts,
to the stone
steps of an upper room:
the welcome of an
open door,
anxious friends,
and a celebration
of the past
which becomes the
future.
The bright sun of
Sunday
burnt up in an
instant
prepared,
ordained,
schemed and
planned
in eternity.
Yet the storm
cloud of rejection
hides behind the
horizon,
darkening with
the coming of night,
gathering
momentum,
undertone to the
celebration.
The gentle
washing
of the dusty day
from feet
as we enter a
womb of refuge
and the door
closes.
A cup of wine
refreshes
and begins its
anaesthesia.
The camaraderie
of friends and
brothers
journeys
conversations;
banter begins its
camouflage
and smiles seep
into the fear.
Another cup of
wine
and the breaking
of bread
becomes
the safe
familiarity
of Passover;
the security of
history,
the illusion of a
future.
And the storm
cloud of rejection
darkens the
coming of night,
gathering
momentum,
on another page.
