To find one honest truth to say,
And an honest way to say it,
As if one plunged the Milky Way
To pluck a new planet,
Is of tasks, even though we pray
Or sing as does the linnet,
As hard as clutching sea-mad spray
In the decisive minute.
We are conscience-harried clay
Though garrotters without merit,
And white coat theories or faith’s hooray
Cannot empearl that grit.
Yet vicious in the pre-storm grey,
Sweated in sin’s transit,
A tyrant eyes a child at play
And longs to hug it.
Such glints of sunlight, gold on hay,
Bode forth a blood-felt tenet;
Life’s years are blanched by day and day,
Living, dying, to know it.
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© October 2016
