Pieta

by Kate Stanner

His head rests on my shoulder now. As a child he’d nestle there. When shadows grew, my boy tired from loves and labors of the day would rest as I stroked his hair.

We’d walk along the riverbank gathering the rushes where in the still, waiting dusk poppies blazed, and the chill of changing seasons made me shiver as I pictured forming years.

His head rests on my shoulder cold-cheeked and grey. At the close of this long dark day he lies bloodless, wasted in my arms as I stroke his matted hair.

Stretched on groaning timber his arms spanned a world of love and fear. Forgotten hero to the riot of soul-scared people at his feet. My son. God’s Son.