Holy Day


Holy Day
By Doreen Margaret Higgs

It was Good Friday morning, the sky was blue,
there was not a cloud in sight,
In the trees the blackbirds sang,
and I was feeling bright.
But soon the peace was shattered,
the birds they flew away,
Council workman, digging holes,
On this Holy Day.

Pneumatic drills were working hard,
The noise I could not bare,
As I set off to go to church,
now feeling full of care.
I passed the shops with open doors
many goods were on display,
with shoppers filling trollies,
On this Holy Day.

People rushing to and fro,
want to get the shopping done,
Queuing at the bakery,
to buy an hot cross bun.
Easter would not be the same,
without the buns they say,
But they forget that Jesus died,
On this Holy Day.

Though they enjoy their hot cross buns
the meaning no longer clear,
The Easter story now is vague,
and most don’t want to hear.
Shops are open, people work,
they cant find time to pray
They cant find time to go to church,
On this Holy Day.




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