They had nailed him to the wall, palms first
his plastic feet cracked under hammers,
just out of reach, still wearing combat pants
with a crew cut and a scar on his cheek.
A day later he was joined by a bearded one
in khaki, also pinned the way of the cross.
Naturally, everyone was expecting a third,
but four cruciform Barbies materialised
in veils and full bridal wear, accompanied
by a row of pastel Kens dressed for golf,
impaled into brick through their stomachs.
The healing started after the scented candles
and flowers left in vigil as crowds gathered
to sing Elton and Robbie, swaying as one.
A former footballer who’d been paralysed
in a cup tie against Burnley walked again.
A mother and son juggling act from Leeds
qualified for the Britain’s Got Talent final.
A cat in a coma retuned to life on Facebook.
A bald financial adviser grew realistic hair.
In a week, the wall was a fretwork of limbs,
twisted heads, tutus, bazookas and ponies,
cordoned off by community policemen.
But no amount of uniform or striped tape
could have stopped the lit cigarette butt
flicked from a joyridden Astra GTI to nest
in the rubbery frogman crotch of a GI Joe.
Within seconds a fireball raged, the faithful
ran screaming and, like a cheese from hell,
faith bubbled into the gutters and drains.
From an acrid cloud, a new wall emerged,
bright with nails and moonlight.
Runner-Up in the 2017 Poetry Society Stanza Competition announced on National Poetry Day