SHARING THE SUN                                                             

Summer morning I sit in worship

of a rising sun in a cloudless sky,

unblemished blue, almost too perfect

in a world discoloured by the human tide.

I’d like the warmth to slow us down,

with open eyes and emptied minds,

to let inside fine sights and sounds

then turn them into words that rhyme.

 

Looking down from a blank white page,

just a foot away from toasting feet,

away from the riot of the garden bloom,

this easy to miss floral treat:

in a crack between stone flag and mortar,

say six inches long, narrow and neat,

a dozen wild flowers stand together

and strain their necks towards the heat,

 

to reach the rays, the sun’s good work,

shared ambitions between them and me,

though when I shield my eyes or turn away,

to escape the full glare so as to see,

I notice that these flowers don’t flinch,

empowered, perhaps, by delicacy.

Cheeky, they outstare our fiery star,

masters of modern pyromancy.

 

But more of these beauties: each a rich

indigo with the purest white heart,

nature’s adornment for each sandstone flag

on the solid slab terrace of which it forms part.

But one or two questions still gnaw at my mind –

needing some knowledge of science and art:

are they born in a womb or a catacomb

beneath these great weights in the dark?

 

Dark as the deepest of dungeons

brightest light is unable to find,

what kind of faith is required to believe

we’ll see despite our being blind?

And if life is begun deprived of the sun

I may shun the light, leave it behind;

and if no-one can see what imprisons me

no-one can see that I’m inside.

 

The flowers don’t quite answer my questions

but their thoughts can I think be inferred;

I sense that their humble origins

mean their voices are not often heard.

But the thing I have learned from our meeting

are that captives can sometimes be lured

and led by a light deep inside them,

and the beckoning songs of the birds.