I lie back, looking straight ahead, my gaze fixes on a crucifix, which is the only object hanging on the opposite wall – nor is there anything else hanging on the walls of my mind. It hangs ever so slightly askew- and somehow that offends me and troubles my thoughts. The bottom of the cross lies out of plum with the top – maybe only a quarter inch to the right – consequently, the left hand hangs higher than the right. Now, if this was the real cross And that was the real Christ – The angle would have put all the strain On His left arm and hand. How much more painful that would have been! But I am damn sure too that those soldiers Used no plumline to ease the strain for Him! Come to think of it – I have pushed His cross Askew myself, again and again! I will shrive and bare the uncut headlands of my soul – Firstly though, I must arise from my bed And try to straighten that crucifix.
January 1987