The earth is tilted away from the sun:
It snowed in the night, and now it will lie.
On the vast ocean, with trinkets from China,
Round half of the world container ships ply.
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I’ve moved my window boxes around:
The winter cyclamens go – they are old!
They yield to thrusting hyacinths
And see! – the first crocus has burst into gold.
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(The St. Matthew’s Passion performed by Ex Cathedra in Symphony Hall, Birmingham, with tea and hot-cross buns in the interval.)

The man we call Jesus believed in stories,
In Hebrew prophecies being fulfilled.
A terrorist, broken in body and spirit,
He found a cruel slow way to be killed.
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My first May Day: walked and walked
Lost among the legs of the comrades,
On our table piles of coppers for Spain -
But not enough money to stop the raids
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Flies come and go through the open door,
Tennis balls plop beyond the trees.
They say the sun is baking the city,
But here it’s green and cool with a breeze.
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My clean school blouse was soaked in sweat,
The streets were empty. I heard the bell
Far off, as I ran with bursting lungs -
And I lost my faith in prayer as well!
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Tim Johns was a lecturer at the University of Birmingham.
He died in April this year and his colleagues arranged a
memorial gathering in September.

Duke Ellington was playing,
A passion we could share;
From far and wide your colleagues came –
Everyone was there.
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Plum blossom

This spring morning in bed I’m lying,
Not to awake till the birds are crying.
After one night of wind and showers,
How many are the fallen flowers?
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