we should be trudging, downhearted,
but a nervous energy drives us on.
Talk flashes to and fro;
hope seems dead
but won't lie down.
The evening light plays tricks:
two of us walk towards sunset,
but glancing back, we see three shadows.
Why do you argue? says the voice.
Isn't it obvious? we reply, but
who is this third who walks beside us?
We tell all. A volcano of hurt erupts,
hopes raised and dashed, the journeys,
the tales, the hill, the tomb. He speaks –
repaints our angry canvasses
in fresh, unsettling colours:
evening becoming a strange, new dawn.
Home, hungry for more than bread,
we lure the stranger in
with promise of supper, but
where have we seen those hands
that lift the bread and break our hearts
afresh as scales fall from our eyes
and knowledge comes and two of us
gaze, dumbstruck, at an empty space...
...we breathe in the lingering scent
of future hope
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