(This sonnet came to me, complete and in a matter of minutes, at 7 a.m. on Good Friday 2001 whenn I was camapigning for vaccination in the Foot and Mouth Disease outbreak)
Like Aztec pyramids, stinking with human blood,
burnt offerings on an altar built to greed,
we turn from care of our dependants’ need
to sacrifice them to a demon god.
The smoke that stains this low white Easter sky
is raised to nostrils of a higher breed
in places far away. They plant their seed,
corruption, while a million voices die.
Once more the nails thud in to sever love
once more the deadly clouds obscure the sun
once more incomprehension in the one
who follows orders filtering from above.
To God this feeble thanks we can return:
It’s animals, not humans, that they burn.
© Richard Lawson
Congresbury
13/4/01
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