Cloaks and branches crystallise beneath
the donkey’s hooves; the air solidifies
to expectation and unrooted praise.
Jerusalem that morning was a soup,
with Passover dissolved in loss and hope,
clean colours merging to a seething brown.
Good news coagulates in grounded coins,
in eyes and feet new-made; the urchins bind
their recognition with salvation cries.
The law men dry to rigid righteousness,
their flint-sharp edges set toward the man
who brings the thick suspension to the boil.