Diana Webb

Tenebrae

In the midst of this bitter spring, music for Holy Week plays out from the radio. My toddler grandson, once in intensive care in the aftermath of serious post-natal surgery, spins the black propellers of his small red helicopter ambulance, opens and closes the doors of his scarlet post van. He expresses delight with a range of vowels. Deep , dark, resonant, experimental, the sounds from the strings and drums. Seven Last Words. Stabat Mater.

that white crocus
there again among the wood chips
I blow out my candle