Mulling it Over

​Cinnamon, cardamom, almonds

and wasps, plump imported raisins,

currants; Uncle’s aluminium pan.

The sunlight is thinner and Maria

who is Greek is fasting; orange peel

floats in the dark pool of wine.

I add sugar and schnapps, watch

the liquid almost boil and ladle it

into warm mugs. We breathe in

the alcohol, swat at the wasps

remember last Easter and the one

before. We marvel at the yeasty buns

suck the sticky glaze from our fingers

and lift the pale crosses to our lips

knowing that Pilate will wash his hands,

Veronica will wash his face, a

soldier will lance his side, and that

he will chat to a couple of thieves

just before he dies. But, it is

the triumph of the empty tomb

we most admire as we raise our

hot mugs of wine in relief, glad.

hot mugs of wine in relief, glad.