On Leaving the Choir

I will no longer sing
for my forebears
when, like these
unfortunate lilies,
they are cut down

Like these fragrant blooms
and the feudal lord of hosts,
I know my kin are well and truly dead
and the bells toll for nobody’s soul…
it’s all in your head

But I can tell you
this raises me up –
the smile of my mate…
just as overflows my cup
with pleasure when I hear
any child’s laughter.

Love, of course, as well
in all its guises…
I am overjoyed to see
piercing the challenging sod
a green shoot, as it rises
to point to the infinite sky
not some bloodthirsty god.

In these I will abide
They bring me joy again –
and again and again –
the beauty of golden rays
on the welcoming sea
as the sun escapes
its prison of tumbling greys –
these…and flowers…and rain
and the constancies
of the endless tide.

Gods have I none
nor soul, save the sense
that the human race is a tad more
than too-often failed experiments.




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