I’ve always had a sense of the rhythms of the different days of the week – a kind of synaesthesia where Monday smells of laundry on the line, Saturday has a concrete and iron heaviness and Wednesday moves like a see-saw. Friday brings release, a hangover from years of nine-to-five or the teaching week, even though I haven’t worked in that pattern for over a decade.

Sundays are bright with bells and have something of the characteristics of these tulips, photographed a couple of days ago in gardens across Canterbury. A friend gifted a bag each to seven of us to celebrate her 50th earlier this year. They are flowering for the first time, full of light.

But for me, Good Friday has always been sombre. In Canterbury, I’d would usually attend the three hour vigil in the cathedral. Today, instead, I’ve decided to spend three hours in the garden tackling, appropriately, some of the brambles and the thicket of thorns.

Here is a poem that captures Good Friday, by Welsh poet and visionary, R.S. Thomas, The Coming. (Scroll down past the ads)

It’s a poem that stuns me on every reading. This year, the line ‘a vanished April’ leaps out especially. April 2020 is a month characterised by vanishing.

And yet, there’s hope of light to come. Yesterday I photographed my 89-year old mum outside her block of flats, entranced by the pattern made by the shadows of still-bare branches, and unaccountably, a rainbow crept into the shot, like a kind of faith.


  1. Peter Leyland April 10, 2020 at 12:55 pm

    Well that poem made me gasp, Vicky. Good Friday was always grim as a child, having fish which I hated and it always seemed black…

    But thanks for inserting the flowers and pictures of your Mum into the day which is brighter now. You will know The Bright Field.

    • Victoria May 19, 2020 at 9:04 am

      Thanks Peter, yes, I do know The Bright Field and think of it often during this radiant spring. I wonder if I’ve blogged on it? Must check! Hope you are keeping well.

  2. Ann Hazinedar April 11, 2020 at 9:13 am

    Yes, a poem to make one gasp in awed recognition. “April is the cruellest month”, but your memories of childhood, these glowing photographs of flowers blooming for the first time and this wonderful image of your mum have lifted my spirits. Thank you.

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