Villagers unsmiling,
conferred in the yew tree square
nursing brown arms, smoking
as we entered the church porch
beneath the sombre tower.
Within an alcove to our left,
in a shaft of yellow light,
the Virgin held out friendly hands
as in private recognition
of a public Easter night.
At the bell a hundred shoulders
had heaved and hoisted her,
two hundred feet in unison,
on her glittering catafalque,
through bustling Malaga.
Now standing on pram wheels,
with no candle or bright flower
to adorn her bright doll’s gaze
she beckoned us to move
from the heavy, ancient door.
It was as well she did,
we were not welcome to
the sudden buzzing flow
of villagers who bore
an ebony coffin through.
None seemed aware but Mary
of strangers in the aisle,
their eyes were trained elsewhere.
We were of no account,
and had no business there.
©Terry Hodgson2020
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