Good Friday       

This day has lost its meaning,

This day is just a day

On which to take the children

Somewhere else to play.


The trees are not in leaf;

Gaunt arms are stretched out wide;

The climbing boys can laugh

As though no one had died.


The girls in party dresses

Admire a game of catch:

The motor-cyclist passes

To picnic on the beach.


Your car - a chance for polish;

The garden might be raked;

And is not now the moment

To see the rose-bush staked?


But strange this peace, this silence.

A quietness seems to clash

Against the world with violence.

And some will still eat fish.


April 12th,1968