Steve Lang - Good Friday

Through the straight, rough, wooden beams
Of our rudimentary fence,
That separates garden from snake-infested scrub beyond,
I see a pile of gnarly, pallid rocks,
That sits on the hard-baked, sandy earth,
As though it marks a shallow grave,
Or like so many sun-bleached skulls,
Carelessly clopped together one-by-one.

A dry breeze troubles the thorn trees
And the hanging wind-chime of sliced bamboo,
Now weathered grey and swaying doleful,
Like as many human femurs,
With a chunk of broken pelvis for a clapper.

Flies whine with desperate insistence
And overhead, a clear, blue sky arches back
Two thousand years to Golgotha.

Steve Lang

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/good-friday-29/