THIS CREATOR

THIS CREATOR

This creator is an enigma:
irrational perhaps,
full of maybes, could-bes, perhapses.
Could we halt his creations?
Sling some tempered steel
to the turning wheel?

Ask no questions on that score
all the answers are mislaid memories
slunk back along the anxious alleyways
and the febrile footpaths of time.

This creator is a restorer of lost pictures
a reminder of wings and beauty
peril and glee
of whom we once were
and who we will be.
And singing, singing
celebrates impermanence
as much as all eternity.

Once [or twice, or thrice] upon a time
he traced a sign
within the virgin sand
and, despite his crisp denials,
water glistened in the tracks
of his finger's glide …
and somewhere
along this cold wet wall
the mind-child,
man-child sighed
and wrote his name.

Creation hurts.
this creator cannot save us
but makes us worth saving;
makes our passing mourned
and, almost as an afterthought,
his own.