Maundy Thursday

Tonight there was a blood moon rising
Full and low and crimson.
An urchin in the street
Tapped me on the back, and said:
What is it missus?
Is the moon dead?
Is the moon dead?
This morning a cherry tree was
Heavy with translucent
Opalescent blossom
As if its graceful uplifted arms
Dripped with all the pearls of the world.
This evening the creamy candles
Of St Anne's Chapel
Honoured the altar -
Their yellow flames wavered
And darkened
The carved wooden corners of the pews
As we waited with you.
When your hour had come 
At midnight, I came out 
To the chilly city wind, 
The dusty fragrance of our 
Warmest day -
To find the moon had risen
High and white and clean
Hanging
In an ice-blue sky.

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