While stroboscopes and gallop hooves
deceive the eye, as speed spoke wheels,
I’m well aware our cycle lives
(though don’t assume re-birth - I don’t
believe before, a species shift)
sidereal and seasonal;
as all creation, changes shape,
our soul in metamorphosis.
The optics may delude our minds,
a tromp l’oeil put off the scent,
beguile our sense, hoodwink the think,
defraud the type inherited;
the vision fogged, smog mystified,
spurn what you see is what you get,
but choose to hear diversity,
believe that man in Galilee?
Before I read of Janet, John,
my ladybirds took me to bed,
their years, was told, by dots on red,
a domino, black spots effect.
When puppies first arrived at home,
and pet deaths raised their ugly head,
the bard’s text, seven ages came,
as canine time moved fast ahead.
When father felled the apple tree
and showed me rings of season’s growth,
I realised the measured steps,
would vary in the species met.
So crows’ feet settle round my eyes,
black-capped jackdaw, life-thieving judge,
no spots, no teeth, no ring, poor sight.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English and Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church with Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Grand Little Things. He maintains a PoetryKingsnorth blog.