Pebble Poem

This poem is a pebble
Or on the pebbled path
To homelessness, alone,
An unpolished stone
In the shape of
Inevitable loss,
Where barefoot ramblers
Wince and stumble
From discomfort rubbing
Against their soles,
Between camomile toes
And a heart of
Reminiscence aloft
From parabolic domes
On domiciles all tossed
Into an open ocean’s
Samphire-scented arms.
Someday, far in the future
These words will be unearthed
By a scientist’s assistant
Who later came to harm,
And where then will
A coast resurge, wild
Spume, renewed oaths,
Where will be their gardens
Beside the stony path.

This pebble is a poem
And in my hand, a gift;
Transient, impermanent,
Miracles are not
The genesis of men,
But germination,
That’s godliness,
Oak from a seed,
Galaxies from an atom,
A poem inside me,
The rest is axiomatic.

A Resurrection

In the corner of my eye
I glimpsed a fragile butterfly,
Did you see it too?
It turned into an earthquake,
I didn’t know
Quite what to do.

Underneath a raindrop
Sleeping on a leaf,
I found a missing compass point,
I found a burning heath;
Dharma in a rainbow’s breadth
Ninth wonder in a sheaf.

In the corner of my eye
I glimpsed a resurrection,
Did you see it too?
It turned into a moonlit moth,
And now I know
Just what to do.