(on an overcast winter afternoon, with a warm sun poking through at times)
The grasses bow and bend their heads before
the wind that comes as it sees fit to do.
They dance upon these Queensland plains and more -
these wattles, brigalow, and gum do too.
Would they under this spirit-wind’s caress
go dancing, sighing, shimmering and more,
& I just walk aloof, as though un-blessed
(even She-oaks shussle with their score)
Why when it comes again , this cool sweet breeze,
I’ll join with all the rest of nature's hoard
and add the sounds i can to jumping knees
to honor all the good of our sweet Lord!
Creative love, itself a god of kinds,
but unlike all the pantheon of Greece,
more like the one Yeshua says he finds
to be a father who is very pleased
(not with rapacious ruin of the world,
but) when “his” kid looks up, humbles themself,
returns to join in with that flag unfurled
creative love, for goodness’ sake brings health,
and speaks the truth, with stories as he passed
of grasses, & the birds, and thistles too,
of donkies or of oxen fed at last,
of cows that fall into a hole & moo.
Would I, unlike creative love itself,
prefer to speak of more “religious” stuff?
“No Sir!”, I answer, for I find my wealth
in world, & folk around about enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thanks for adding to the conversation...