The Thinking Poet


Specks at a Galaxy's Tip

Spring mistiness now at early morning;

And everywhere gathering greenery with rumours of resurrection.

The greening is insistent:

Willow and birch that feigned long sleep, now stir,

And flaunt new dress for fir to see.

She, still in last year’s dowdy togs, looks enviously.


God, for those who see, is busy with creation.

Rumour is persistent, though the world remains resistant,

That death has had its day.

Father, Son and Holy Ghost,

An idea hard to sell,

Are quite a team, a trio nonpareil.


Great Father fugue, spinning his endless threads of themes;

For you, earth-riding Logos, to weave with filial flair,

Fashioning musical shapes into vast fast-moving streams.

And those swept into their vortex,

Amazed specks at a galaxy’s tip,

Make the incredible musical trip,

Never knowing full meaning

Yet holding its joy to their hearts

As I, now in Spring mistiness,

Love, and know in part.



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