The museum shuts

The man made of wood
Grew branches, twigs and leaves
Will he come to bud?

She did not notice
Treated him like a real man
They were well rooted.

She bore him a child
Fertilised by his flowers
The child was human.

A  canopy hung
From branch to branch making safe
A home and shelter.

Later he  appeared
In the Middle East and was
Hung from his father.

Torture was sacred
And his father was defiled.
He began to burn.

A red  flame shrieked .
A child drew butterflies.
They are in Prague now.

The little children
Their huge eyes and anxious trust
Oh, mother,father.

All  burn evermore
In the black mind of Europe
The height of culture.

Their  eyes,close their eyes.
Let them not look out at us
From the  photographs

When we celebrate
We deck the halls with  holly
The Museum shuts.

As the lights go out
Remember, men  like to fight.
And holly draws blood