The Thinking Poet

 

Cataracts

First home; fairyland.
First sea; worlds of sand.
First music; big brass band.
First tree; infinity.
Thrill-perceived through dancing leaves.
First stars needle-bright.
Smiling moon; mysterious night.

Beginnings are special.
Big bang birth  
opens windows on a world
slowly built,
brick by brick,
in mind's expanding space,
at time's steady pace.

Science has a name for it: "singularity",
of which for once they're lost for words. 
Origins, beginnings,
the genesis of things,
are like springs
gushing out of mountain-sides,
their source unknown.

Wonder
is in the water, new-born;
Cataracts
snatch at light to be bejewelled.
Fuelled with life
they speed life in plenty
to parched plains below.

I am at pains
to declaim
the awe of our becoming;
to make a plea
not to forget
the burgeoning of things.
The soil of self is served by living springs.

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                   6.3.99