GOD 2

ha MEGGIDO

This ancient fortress
Layered by civilizations,
Here, the stones still speak;
Whispering their story,
On the warm breeze.
They echo a bloody past
Of conflict and conquest.
The past long gone,
Is somehow present,
Paradoxically
And prophetically,
Marking out the future.
The hill of Megiddo
Still holds its ground,
Where this verdant plain,
As far as eye can see,
Stretches itself
To the far, hazy hills,
And waits for the final conflict.

___________________
ha Megiddo -Armageddon

WEEKEND AWAY

We took a coach to Skull Hill,
Just outside a smallish town.
We didn't stop for very long,
Three men were being killed.
One, they said, for nothing.
(But they wouldn't kill for nothing.
Would they?)
We journeyed on, a couple of days,
To picnic by this empty tomb,
Much nicer, with the flowers you know.
Someone said the man had risen from the dead.
(But they'd tell you anything.
Wouldn't they?)
We packed our picnic things
And left the gardener -such a nice chap.
On the coach they talked about
His hands and feet, all cut and marked.
(You'd expect that with gardening.
Wouldn't you?)

All poems and photographs [unless otherwise acknowledged] 
 © Bryce Cooke  All rights reserved

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