951

Big Bang

If only thinking were as organised as verse;

Each tidy framed idea in its place,

Each fleeting concept pinnded down and exposed

To microscopic, water-tight inspection;

No chance for it to wriggle and excape.

But my though is like seeking

Grey moths in a fog,

No sooner glimpsed than lost

Or worse

Clutched but slaughtered in the act.

Verse, at least the way I write it,

Exists only as it hits the page.

I may not have recognised

The neatness of its form

But suddenly, here it is,

Whereas

Before this pencil set it out

I've no idea where this line will go,

And worse

If you should ask me in ten minutes time

What I had written

I wouldn't have a clue.

I'm no Wordsworth, composing as he walked

Or Elgar listening to trees

Then returning home to simply set upon the page

What was already there.

Like the Saxon sparrow

It comes from nowhere

And is as quickly gone.

Only 

The instant of creation

Survives.

Brian Hick summer 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 23.6.23