Easter

Nothing of it here — the slow hard work of rebirth.
A many-toned brilliance rules. The sky
is empty and full and flawless, the river
phosphorescent-blue but for bridge struts
billowing out above white rails in flux,
ash-grey columns gliding between the shores.
A Sunday morning calm. Plovers rest on
the river's tongue of sand, dot its buff gleam.
Stretched on a bench, I soak strength from the sun,
gaze at the red anemones of a gum,
light, glossy as sap, on scythe-curved leaves.
Then home to record these hints of threshold
beyond threshold, unchartable abundance,
an ever-transforming clarity.