Tournament somnambular, resurrection idiotic

(An Easter Nightmare)

We were playing ball.
Everyone was catching
Although the sphere was hard
the movement required watching.
A cry, a call, from not so far
summoned all to sit and stare
no matter what religion
no matter what decision
no second for derision
in the strident call to prayer.
A strike it seemed
where pupils teemed
the gates to learning
obstructed by yearning
not to think
nor spill ink
but rather strain,
compress the brain
in the perfect form
to so conform
sweetly within
the most banal norm.
Vainly sought
that freely thought
without obsession
with all that ought.
of light
a frantic flight
from true
to false delight.

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is also the author of Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..