During the last week I have done plenty of walking. Good for the legs, and good for the soul I guess. Nearly all of this walking has been around Jerusalem during a troubled week. I have staggered around new road building projects on the Nablus Rd, gone underground to look at a 1st century Roman road, stared at a set of steps next to Caiaphas’ Palace where the arrested Jesus was brought for imprisonment, wondering whether these were the steps, and walked down a rubble strewn Shu’fat Road following two nights of rioting, where a community of ‘living stones’ is trying to come to terms with the loss of a teenage boy, murdered for his nationality.
I walk on the stones,
The hot stones of the busy street, shining white and blinding back,
The ancient stones of Roman times, underground, all gouged and rutted,
The very stones where Jesus walked, or so the learned guidebook says,
The thrown stones of rioting men, stacked, alongside burnt tyres and broken glass,
Amongst the dead stones, the living stones,
The living stones, the living stones,
I walk on the stones.
And I am not watching my step.