The Creation of the World –

black Ice, the covert

operation of a clinging operatic instep unveiled

we lay on the floor convulsing

god untangling our electrical impulses

to Sing a river into being there

by the rocks abutting purple cliffs with

whitewash and Sacrifice our

pregnant Women and wishing millions building

in our minds

an architecture of sense our breath blown

through skies unsheltering havoc

and blue bliss; we

get down to basics of arrival

seclusion fruition remittal – the animals

bray, moan, whine

in stuttered contractions our elders

round the fire whisper

incantations of Sense and Spirit – children

run frightened to their Mothers

as hunters

submit their logic to the wood – hazy

dusk yearns for

blacker Night the shadows shiver in the air

we the still ones with our heads held high

scrub our cheeks with moss and

chew gently on twigs the root

vegetation of a spare repast – what

God is this who

retracts, conveys, distorts, twists, uncovers

errors, riddles, jokes, parodies, parades of

unquestionable unions?

Are we on our own, Now, to craft

Our evolution as

we see fit? What

manner of inspiration

shields us in our brilliant Light?

We are each other’s intimate saviours

here inclined

to bring our Spirits high

and justified – We are in this

each Other

and the World --