On The Treadmill

I have come to recognise God in a violent song,
played in the evening with broken forks and knives.

If I refuse to kneel, the winter starts at the end of September,
on Tuesdays, when I pass by the Jewish quarters.
My road to confession starts, just the same, with the morning chill.

The stones, the trees, the sky have a message,
of that I am certain, arrived at the wooden door of the hermitage.
And I knock and I knock.

A raven finally opens the white background.

The raven says with calculated words that, at present,
this government is busy.
Important wars need attending, in a land like no other.
I am given a form and I hear the padlocks.

I jump on the treadmill to keep warm.


 Maria Stadnicka
Illustration Nick Victor


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