You led a busy week:
your diary tells us you tidied up
on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday
Thursday and Friday –
in fact every day, every week, every year –
and often you did the washing
or had the Hoover out
Sometimes people came round – bless them –
and sometimes they didn’t:
you made sure the garden looked nice,
but you always went to bed
at the end of the day
In your diary you didn’t mention supper much,
not even the last supper,
perhaps because you found it impossible
to tidy up afterwards:
too much dead wood,
noisy crowds,
blood and circuses,
power failures,
darkness and light
They didn’t even put the stone back
where it was
Last in my series of Lent poems