Imagine if our thinking
were a kind of thanking:
I don’t know what I’d do
with much of mine.
I spend most my seconds
comparing firsts and seconds,
thirsting after the forbidden,
and generally pining through the day
to tear out every last fast greying hair.
Stillness only arrives unbidden.
I’m becoming convinced
that hidden in each moment
there's a fount of joy as a boy I drank from.
Beauty, grace, call it what you like:
words, hymns, depictions of God’s face
are only pointers towards the light,
like the nightingale’s beak under the moon.
I’m still learning not to speak too soon.