can you hear the new season’s
grass grow in the quiet morning
when not even the harbingers
of dawn’s chorus have risen
to give voice to the hope
a weary man might look for
in the half light of a new day?
And if you sit still long enough
to witness one full revolution
of your whole world filled,
not only by silences and space,
but with people, players, places
and circumstances, births, deaths,
marriages, soap operas, plays
and sonatas that might uplift
the perplexed spirit of a cliché
masquerading as a man
of wit and wisdom
could you see the point
of departure on the axis
as it spins beyond control?
And if not, how do you
deal with life’s certainties
we can neither touch nor taste
nor hear nor see nor feel?
Someone ought to write a manual.
Passionate intensity for dummies,
with a contents page, a proper index
and one or two cartoon characters.
If you’re lucky you’ll find it
in the remaindered section
of book shops everywhere
until you need it
more than you had ever feared.
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