of monsters and words
that taste of rusted chains
and snare
this beautiful,
extraordinary world
with a noose of syllables and syntax
And of those who redefine
my hope in words
that I cannot recognise or understand...
What strange creatures we are:
We find ourselves flung among darkness and stars
Adrift and alone on a spinning globe
in an Eden we think we've lost.
Is it not surprising that our dreams are of fire and light?
And we people our worlds with such gods and demons
That we scarce can tell them apart
or know which to worship
and which to fear
So we find patterns among our footprints
and music in wind-blown trees
and we begin to see significance in the lines of each palm
and read our future in the shadow of our past
And we mark our lives with cups of tea
or things more insubstantial and find small
words to reach across the empty space that separates us
So that, for one small moment, the night erupts with the
spun-gold light of our small suns.
'The gate at the end of the vicarage snicket was blocked by cows again this morning.'
'I won't be surprised if a spot of rain will be coming our way.'
'The clock is running a little fast today.'
'I'll see you tomorrow then, God willing...
... God willing'
Our globe still spins its path through all that silent darkness.
Come, show me your god
and I will show you
your deepest fears.
