They say there will be no Easter this year.
No hats.
No hunts.
No hymning.
No lilies to fill a bright room 
with a fanfare of pollen.
No garden, no angel,
no victory.

They say that our journey 
born in sackcloth and ashes
will lead us at last
to nowhere.

And so we sit worried
that the tomb, this year,
will be found, for once,
still full.

That Mary and the others
will leave with their spices
and come back home with nothing.
That this year the women will finally end their work – 
anoint and then 
leave empty.

Ssh. Be still.
Do you not hear her?
Clucking close by like an old mother hen,
brooding and sighing and
stretching her wings?

Fear not, she says,
for I did it before – 
in the silence
in the dark
in a closed and locked room
in a world that had known
only death.

Did I not once prove
once for all
that there is nothing you can do,
no decision you can make
(for good or for ill)
that can stop
me
rising?