The Thinking Poet

 

Theory of Everything

Here I struggle till the end.

Rough notes, marked books, brave essays, poems,

And that daily disgorging of mind,

The journal,

All tell of the track I trod,

Seeking the grail through a glass, darkly.

Impossible task,

This meeting of minds with God.

 

Yet there were times

When I felt our fingers touch,

So much sudden certitude would swamp me;

But back in time,

The flood would recede.

The miraculous explosion

Became an implosion,

And the little joy would vanish to a point.

 

One thing I have learnt along the way:

That finding God

Is not a search for countless whys and wherefores.

We try to play God;

Stride into the cosmos,

Climb inside the atom,

Philosophize, theologize,

But all the while the real prize

Is there before our eyes;

The simple gift of love.

 

As for the rest:

Galaxies and stars,

Quantum roulette,

The genetic bet

That chance won,

And God lost;

These things can wait until the Big Crunch, death,

Liberates, that we may deliberate.

And in the absence of breath,

Free from mind's constriction,

The Theory of Everything

Is there for the taking.

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R.R.Cretchley

21.11.94