Anyway . . . he was there,
leading the procession of
bishop, priests and choristers,
shiny brown eyes
in a serene face.
He held a cross twice his size,
this small, slender replica
of Simon of Syrene.

You couldn’t hear him come
-for the red carpet was thick,
the organ sound even thicker:
“Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty” –
but he was expected . . .

Blue-silvery heads turned quietly,
mouthing the familiar words of
the triumphant, stately hymn,
women smiled benignly,
when little Simon passed . . .

He stood still before the altar,
slightly leaning back
to balance the heavy cross.
Bishop, priests and choristers
passed by on either side of him.

Suddenly I saw him
look up to the empty cross,
A penny for his thoughts . . .
Did the cross-bands cut
into his small shoulders?
Had he wanted to stay home,
to play soccer down the street?
Or . . .was he contemplating
the suffering of his Lord?

The priest nudged him gently,
and abruptly he turned
to place the cross in its holder.
He joined the smirking choirboys
in the high descant of the last verse:
“Holy, Holy, Holy! Lord God Almighty!
All thy works shall praise Thy Name,
in earth and sky and sea!”

I thought I heard his voice
above all the others.