By Roger G McDonald
But not for us. A Phiri parish waits:
Holy Rosary, with its dusty streets.
Today, poverty waits outside its gates.
On a bare field, the congregation meets.
Empurpled women sing. The dust retreats.
The fewer, older men, all greying, walk
as guards to the procession. Palms held high
seem more than symbols leading to a talk
on life and death and resurrection. Why,
I wonder, have we come to this? And sigh.
(to be continued)