You hold the world in cupped hands, its silence
pierces finger tips. Your eye embraces -
turns out to be the sun. You as onlooker.
Sleeping in the silvery house is splendour -
she is harmony. Her gown grown alive
each ethereal thread a life; the lifeless plucked
by a harpist, dishevelled like the crow’s nest
with things gleaming and piercing entombed
in a bramble - a grove grown wild and wicked
that enfolds the house long gone dark.
You don’t know how it came about, or why,
this apparent eternal slumber. Where is
the one, you wonder? The peck, the realisation?
You as the one; - all God's creatures in your hands.
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