Blackbird
skips, listens,
hops;
hops-skips-listens,
angled
beak quizzing
the
steaming earth.
There,
a soft-palmed Adam,
I
have delved, unconsciously
the
cynosure of beady eyes.
Who
cowers in the sod, tiny
heart
racing at the blundering
enormity
of my assault?
This
tree-limbed clod can shift
mountains,
make light
work
of catastrophe, his blade
descents
the Four Last Things.
The
worm would spiral away,
still
deeper into fecund silence,
but
listen, skip, hop; hop-skip
bounce
and stab!
Swinging
in the aery element
worm
asks, 'Is this heaven?'
and
I, toiling towards my own
quittance,
whisper 'Yes'.
