The Somewhat Odd Surprise:

He sat, watching the silent ripples running across the water.

They seemed different today, and this was quite odd because

There was only a feather-light, cooling breeze which barely

Allowed the trees to whisper their secrets to the birds above his 

Head. Suddenly, and somewhat to his surprise, the once small 

Ripples strengthened and some moments later a submarine, 

Startling both ducks and fish alike, broke the surface, its flanks 

Crusted with weed, rust and barnacles.  Raising his eyes to the 

Top of the conning tower he was most interested to see a much 

Repaired little flag bearing a neat swastika being purposefully 

Unfurled and then an extremely elderly gentleman in a rather 

Tattered but clean uniform, his head covered by a smart peaked 

Hat, appear and salute him.  Not knowing quite what was the 

Etiquette and appropriate way to act in such circumstances, he 

Saluted in return.  In broken French the geriatric then started to 

Speak most earnestly, totally confusing him, so he asked the 

Old chap if he parlez (ed) any anglais?  Indeed he did!  In a 

Crisp, somewhat clipped Welsh accent, his back now almost 

Ramrod straight, he quietly and insistently gave his surrender.

Somewhat nonplussed he nodded his perplexed understanding,

Explaining with care that he was an Irish national and therefore

A neutral in the affray.  Thinking on his feet, his mind now

Racing, he offered to take him to somebody who could accept

The offer.  He figured that at least the Marie had probably got 

Ancestors who were involved, probably in the resistance, as

An astonishingly large number now appeared to have been,

And that was the best he could come up with, so it would have

To do!  The old gentleman nodded imperceptibly his apparent

Contentment with the plan and commenced a most slow, and 

Frankly nerve-wracking to watch, climb down a rusting, and in

Places broken, ladder followed by another lean and elderly

Gentleman, his First Officer, he guessed.  A hatch on the deck 

Then creaked open a few centimetres, evidently stuck, and 

After some heavy banging – impact technology with a large 

Hammer, he guessed -  and endless German curses, opened 

Further and several more extremely old men came unhurriedly 

Up on to the deck, unhurriedly now being their only speed 

Setting, and pulled out and launched a small, battered dinghy.

The Captain and First Officer followed two of his crew in 

Climbing aboard and were oh so very slowly rowed ashore.

As the Captain was carefully disembarking he noticed a holster 

At his waist and felt some serious trepidation as the old chap

Drew out an immaculately clean, silver plated Luger, only to 

Reverse it almost tenderly and hand it to him in surrender 

Anyway.  Gingerly he took it, checked the safety and dropped 

Out the magazine, which he pocketed, and then stuck the pistol 

In his belt. As he did so the little dinghy made its way back to 

The U-boat and, as slowly as one would easily imagine in such  

Circumstances, ferried, three at a time, the rest of the aged 

Crew to dry land and then was tied up by its now shattered 

Oarsmen who with relief writ large climbed ashore themselves.

Finally there were 23 very elderly crew transferred ashore plus 

An ancient Brit whom they had atypically rescued, long and

Long ago from a deserted island.  He appeared to be on very 

Good terms with the crew, and especially so with the Captain 

Who he talked to solely in German, an unsurprising but none-

The-less interesting case of ‘Stockholm Syndrome’, he mused.  

Anyway, it was time to get on.  The First Officer mustered the 

Old Salts for the Captain to, with great seriousness, inspect, 

And, nodding his approval, they strolled up the hill and into the 

Village, chatting about neutral subjects – the weather, the 

Crops, the bird song – in a companionable sort of way.  It also 

Transpired that they both had a passion for Winnie-the-Pooh.  

When they passed the houses where folk were out, gardening, 

And such, they drew the odd stare but, arriving at the Marie’s 

Office without incident, he gave himself a quiet pat on the back 

For things going so very smoothly.  Not possessing a watch, 

However, he had not been cognisant of the passage of time.  It 

Was midday.  The Marie was closed up, shutters shut tight, all 

There having gone out, as was their wont, for a leisurely lunch.

He felt some small irritation at the situation, though, it must be 

Said, considerably less, it appeared, than the First Officer who 

Had felt most obvious, deep frustration at the failure of his 

Most persistent efforts to get the ancient men who formed the 

Crew to march in step, something they had obviously not done 

For a most considerable period of time, if ever.  Thus it was 

That he was calm as he explained how things were and most 

Thankful that the extremely elderly Captain coolly accepted the 

Position with a quiet equanimity and took to a bench with his 

Considerably less composed First Officer, and the prisoner, 

Ordering his creaking crew to sit on the ground.  Though they 

Obviously felt quite exhausted after their walk, this was still a 

Painful exercise to observe, and indeed to carry out, and he 

Wondered, with the silence of a true diplomat, whether many 

Would be able to ascend again without considerable assistance.

There they all sat in the warm sun, and cooling breeze, with the 

Occasional passers-by staring with both curiosity and not a 

Little wonder, but barely breaking a stride as they hurried to 

The bar for their plat du jour and litre or so of cider or red wine 

Before they wended their contented way back to work again.  

He pondered on this, briefly, more than a little hungry himself, 

But his mind swiftly returned to, as he now saw them, his new 

Guests, and they continued to chat happily until at last several 

Folk, including the Marie herself, appeared, walking slowly 

But talking with animation. This latter, impressive and most 

Important personage was more than a little puzzled as he then 

Explained the situation to her quietly in his appalling French.  

Initially he could see that she clearly thought him a lunatic and 

The whole business some kind of mad stunt, but at the last his 

Sincerity won the day and most courteously she invited them in

Where they again sat whilst she hastily made a series of phone

Calls.  That done she had her staff take water to the old chaps

Outside on the car park whilst they, indoors, drank coffee.

A short, anticipatory time passed and then screaming sirens 

Could be heard approaching.  As two police cars swung into 

The car park, only to halt abruptly due to the unthreatening, 

Elderly crew members peacefully seated there, a considerable 

Convoy of military vehicles arrived and heavily armed soldiers 

Leapt out and, with growing puzzlement, carefully covered the 

Old chaps.  Inside, the Marie nodded to him and he swiftly 

Stood, and retaining the magazine, returned the silver Luger to 

Its rightful owner, who stood also, with the help of his First 

Officer, squared up his hat and tattered uniform, holstered his 

Weapon and joined his men.  There was a pause as he again 

Slowly withdrew the Luger, reversed it and then waited.  An 

Officer came forward, saluted smartly, took the gun, checked it 

Was empty and chivalrously returned it as he accepted the 

Formal surrender.  His troops then shouldered their weapons 

And helped the seated crew creakily to their feet, ushering 

Them towards the trucks, whilst the Captain and First Officer 

Were offered the luxury of the police cars which, to their 

Credit, they refused, as did their erstwhile prisoner! Noticing

This he pondered.  Perhaps they had travelled in one such  

Before and held unhappy memories of the event, or sensible 

Apprehension about the driving! A small hiatus then ensued 

Which caught his attention at this point, until one of the more 

Innovative of the troopers suggested to his officer that perhaps 

The strategic use of some chairs might go a considerable way 

To alleviating their predicament.  Thus it was that several of 

Them were brought from the Marie’s office, under her most 

Suspicious glare – had she had her furniture stolen by soldiers 

Before, he wondered? -  and then slowly and most carefully, 

The old sailors were lifted onto these and then into the lorries.

He watched and waved in an abstracted sort of way as, at the  

First the police cars, sirens still screaming for some reason of 

Self-importance and the size of the driver’s private parts, and 

Then the laden lorries drove off at a sedate pace, being most 

Thoughtful about the infirmity of their contented captives.  He 

Then wished the Marie a ‘Bon journee’, leaving her recounting 

Her chairs, turned about and, most leisurely, wandered back 

Through the village and down to where he had parked his old 

Rangy.  Another troop of soldiers were now securing the area 

Around the submarine, much to the apparent annoyance of a 

Family of ducks and amusement of some cawing crows, but 

Kindly let him through.  Thoughtfully then, he drove home to 

Collect his wife and the dogs.  This day there was 1664 to be 

Drunk, and he must concentrate now upon doing his duty.  As 

For the puzzle of what an ancient U Boat and its elderly crew 

Was doing in the lake at Meneac, that could await another day.

     

Rage: 
Don’t fucking tell me that this tragedy isn’t political.
Don’t try to sidestep me with the heroes and the 
Community which rallies round so full of care. 
Don’t tell me this extraordinary tragedy is just one
Of those things, couldn’t be avoided. It could. The
Block went up like a sodding Roman candle. It was a
Pyrotechnic event in one of the wealthiest boroughs
In the world who pride themselves in keeping their
Council tax down so it doesn’t seem extravagant or
Socialist to the rich who live in their well-guarded,
Fire protected, safe houses where their children won’t
Burn to death, where people will not have to jump
Out of windows in flames. I tell you, this happened
Because the rich don’t care, the Tory councils don’t
Even understand what the lives of the people are like
In this fucking Roman candle and I have to wonder
If the bastards ever will. Don’t give me Public
Enquiry, give me homes for the poor which are
Safe. Give me a politics which serves the people
And not the rich. My heart weeps, my soul rages!

Do Not Delude Yourself!

Do not delude you yourself that the person you love is the same 

Person as the person you will wake up with tomorrow, lying by 

Your side in such a familiar manner.  They are not, although, to 

Be fair, they’re a pretty reasonable facsimile, but then again, so 

Are you – at least one night later.  Less so a week later, but 

Nothing stays the same, all is change.  As she sleeps, and as you 

Sleep, the Mad Filing Clerk gets to work on your memories of 

The day, and that impacts on the memories of the day before, 

And that memory you had as a child when you wondered if the 

Horn on the clown’s car was actually the clowns farting and the 

Grownups didn’t see the joke, and so it goes, association after 

Mad, tenuous association.  His/Her filing system is known only 

To the Mad Filing Clerk, though if you have a shrink they’ll 

Try to tell you that they have him sussed.  Rubbish!  One 

Hundred percent, gold-plated, smoking doggie excrement.  He 

Is yours, and yours alone, for richer, for poorer, for better for 

Worse, in sickness and in health, he’ll be organising your files, 

Sneakily during your waking hours, but not so when you are 

Asleep.  They like to call it REM sleep so it sounds like they 

Know what’s going on and you’re in charge, you know, just 

Doing an innocent bit of uncomplicated, symbolically sequenced 

And perfectly straightforward dreaming.  Ha!  Not so.  The Mad 

Filing Clerk is wildly busy, whole-heartedly, with the frenzied 

Rustling of papers being thrown hither and thither and the 

Banging and clattering of your filing cabinet drawers being 

Flung open, closed, cross referenced, shuffled and generally 

Trifled with in the most extraordinary and individual manner, all 

By this Mad Filing Clerk who is an absolute tyrant, answerable 

Only to himself ... no, wait, not quite.  He, too, is under the 

Inexorable regulation of the Nasty Bacon Slicer Man, though I 

Suppose it is possible he is sort of in cahoots with him at first, 

And when the Nasty Bacon Slicer Man slices a tiny piece from 

Your mind, as surely as you breath, and it flies to wherever tiny 

Little slices of your mind fly when they are sliced off … 

Maybe into a another form of filing run by the Mad Filing Clerk, 

Or maybe he has a boss? … but anyway, the Nasty Bacon Slicer 

Man works away, sort of slowly at first, and the Mad Filing 

Clerk then gets a reassuring heads up from the Nasty Bacon 

Slicer man and has time to keep up, and keeps things pretty neat 

And tidy, as far as he’s concerned – apart from those locked 

Filing cabinets which growl at him when he approaches them, 

And make him glad he threw away those keys - but as the 

Slicing speeds up, then he has to try to reorganise more of the 

Files that were associated with those which were sliced off and 

Went to we know not where, and so it goes, slice after slice, 

Filing cabinet reorganisation after filing cabinet reorganisation, 

Until the day, the dread day, when the Nasty Bacon Slicer Man 

Is slicing so fast that the Mad Filing Clerk can’t keep up, or 

Even pretend to keep up, anymore, and then when you wake up 

One fine sunny morning, not only is the one you love a stranger, 

Though perhaps not at first a total stranger because she reminds 

You of somebody but you can’t quite remember who, but the 

Name’s on the tip of your tongue, and then little bits of fluff 

Seem to stand between one synapse and another and she is just a 

Person, whatever a person is, and then, after more and more 

Inexorable slices you are a stranger to yourself, the poor, sad, 

Mad Filing Clerk having pulled out so many drawers and thrown 

Them up into the air in a cacophony of chaos that the Nasty 

Bacon Slicer Man smiles a grim smile, a winners smile, and 

Slows to slicing at his own easy pace, because the outcome has 

Been decided, the job done, and nothing matters anymore 

Except the long, dark descent into grey meaninglessness, the 

Slow, grinding complete betrayal, the tragic suicide of your self. 

A Plea:

What of terror can I usefully say?  
Is it all I can do, sit and pray?
Or, duty bound must I try to write,
Of Manchester’s most appalling night?

Did those who died have time to feel,
Ripped apart by bits of steel?
Had they the time to know much fear,
And cling to that they held most dear?

I cannot know, but I think/pray not,
Their deaths almost instant, but what
Of those poor souls who lay and bled
And turned the floor a violent red?

The injured and the maimed who live;
Those who loved and can’t forgive;
What does the future hold for them,
As they struggle to be whole again?

And how does this make any sense,
When a God of love was their defence,
And that same God that the bomber knew 
Said to kill was the righteous thing to do?

It makes sense, in truth, for man is free
To kill and maim or a lover be.
And all the scriptures can be read,
For good or ill, embrace or behead.

But in that loving God I still believe,
The one who in his arms received,
Those children from their families torn,
Who lived a miracle as they were born.

And this same God will reach out and touch
The wounded, maimed, bereft and such;
He’ll not forsake them, though it may seem so,
As they try to adapt and live with the blow

Which broke their bodies and their hearts,
Or so it seemed at the nightmare’s start.
And though slow and hard is the road they take,
His love will lighten gently each daybreak. 

And as for those who in such terror deal,
Though it be anathema they too will feel,
God’s love, I’m sure, for I know full well
A God of Love could create no Hell.

That said, and knowing it may cause pain,
And righteous anger to well up again,
If one is to believe as I believe,
We must hold to love while we grieve,

For violence does violent response beget,
And hatred and killing perpetuate the threat
Of actions, which to that tragic stadium led,
And more innocent children will then be dead.

To defend ourselves is a basic right,
And I’m not saying we should never fight,
But such defence needs be most precise
Not deal in vengeance, but the threat excise.

So let us do whatever we can
To support the continuance of man,
And stop the bombs from planes and such
And those which terrorists admire so much.

Though it be hard, try we must,
To in both God and Love have trust,
And let love prevail in all we are,
As amor vincit omnia.

For My Grandson, Opie and for Matty and Jade

A Child Is Born:

A glory transpired and a babe was born; Opie, a new lens with 
Which to see the world, a lens which may well look with ease 
Beyond E=MC² and not consider our hard won, fixed laws of 
Physics anything other than starting points for far deeper truths.

This new mind can mature without pre-conceptions, and gift us 
New music, painting, sculpture and poetry if we but see as he 
Sees, what we never saw as art; a mind with only the burden of
Limitations that we, in our ignorance, may choose to impose.

We, in our love, his family, his teachers and friends will give to 
Him the tools we feel he needs to flourish in the world.  Doing 
This we risk smearing his lens, for we are ignorant of what he 
Sees and what he has the potential to see as he lives his turn.

Originality is a flower, or perchance an oak or a plant we have 
Never before seen, and has the greatest chance to blossom and 
Thrive when it is tended with loving care, with enough light, 
Water, nutrients and such, but will do not well without them. 

It can be true with too much also.  Sine ulla dubitatione it is 
Thus with the newborn mind and continues into adulthood, and 
Beyond that, to whatever our next adventure be.  This miracle 
Needs support, space, love, freedom and open minds to bloom.

………………………………………………………………….

I saw a beautiful flower once; its colour was iridescent blue,
The petals soft, coated with downy fur.  The scent was a most 
Exquisite reminder of building tepees in Savernake forest with
My cousins as a child, during that age of innocence and joy.

I picked it and with great care carried it home, placing it in 
Water, wanting to share the beauty and memory with those I 
Loved.  They did not understand.  How could they?  The scent 
And beauty did not touch them as it touched me.  Soon it died.   

I saw a gorgeous bird once; its wings were the colour of a gem 
Sprinkled rainbow and chest a cascade of magenta and green. 
Heartrendingly melancholy was its song.  I captured it, placed 
It in a gilded cage, its beauty to adore.  Its heart fractured there.

I saw a stunning woman once; her hair was raven blue and her 
Face that of an angel.  She walked with grace, and thought with 
Style.  I knew I had to have her.  I used my every wile to make
Her mine, and at the last she came, to be suffocated by love.

………………………………………………………………….

Loving is dangerous, not just to he or she who loves but also to
He or she who is loved, if it be not tempered with consideration 
And respect.  Love is not about owning, not about taking, not 
About changing to suit one’s self.  Love is selfless and giving.

Love is the joy of watching the flower grow as it wishes to; it is 
About ensuring the flower has what it needs to become the best 
Flower it can possibly be, and if you think it is a rose and it is 
Not, love it as it is.  Love must define the lover, not the loved. 

So let it be with Opie.  Let our love not smother him, not try to 
Force him into a mould, with the best of intentions, which we 
See as right for him.  Let us walk that most care-full line which
Builds around him a love scaffold which compliments his him.

Let us encourage joyous curiosity, an enquiring mind and some 
Relaxed scepticism.  Let us give him the example of respect for 
The world and all upon it, and a richness of compassion and 
Empathy.  Thus equipped, a code of love will be his paradigm. 

Let him be so enfolded with undemanding love, that loving 
Becomes his safe harbour, his shield against the dark, with the 
Sure knowledge that there is always someone he can turn to as 
He learns to live in a free mind, one that reaches for the stars. 

He must know too, embraced in love, that cruelty, killing, envy 
Greed and wrath are the weapons of maladjusted minds, and 
Thus learn that black and white are not real, up and down can
Change, hatred can be turned to love and magic can be reality!

Let then our golden thread of selfless love guide him through 
The labyrinth of life.  Let his mind, free of prejudice and full of 
Wonder, stand each day on the threshold of new discovery and 
End each day fulfilled, to dream fine dreams and rise with awe. 

………………………………………………………………….

May that which is the ultimate Mystery and repository of Love, 
bless and guide Opie, all the days of his life, and may those days 
be many, and be days of joy and learning.  Let him grasp each 
one, tenderly but most assuredly; and let his life’s purpose be 
to pursue wisdom, that he may live a life of service to the world 
and its creatures, and lifelong make it a better place. 
Amen 

The Freedom Gate:

The gate slowly opens to their gaze,

A rainbow parting between two soft colours,

And the Lovers, new to each other,

And older by far than time, step through.

Their hands reach, one for the other,

And awe, momentarily, holds them still.

Their hearts stop beating for an instant,

Betwixt one sighing, loving breath,

Which lies eternal, within us all,

If we would but see it, and another;

And cruel time benignly stands silent and still,

As they stare, and there before them

Lies a world that is their own.

Gentle half heard words of welcome

Are carried, tantalising, across the breeze,

Echoing with recognition in their souls,

Which know their meaning of old,

And the scent of newly cut grass,

Old leaves and spices from the orient,

Roses, fresh-peeled tangerines and

A touch of freshly baked bread;

Coffee, fresh ground, and the sea,

The distant, mysterious and wondrous sea

We all carry within us,

Assail and delight their senses, but that most tenderly.

 

An unseen hand has brushed the sky

With a touch of subtle damask and amber,

Leaking through to the blues and greens.

The grass, frothing round the base of mighty trees,

Seems more blue than green,

And two stars shine

Giving their shadows the occasion to slowly dance.

Her eyes are wide, mouth an O of surprise.

He smiles, his tongue touches her neck, softly,

And brings her back to their blending. 

She turns; her arms enfold him,

And his face radiates joy as he feels

Her body relax, melding against his.

Beneath their feet as they walk to the lake,

The ground feels new and vital,

Adding the earth’s life and

A gentle bounce to their casual tread.

She stops, serious, looking up into his eyes,

Her hair reflecting light like angel dust. 

“Is this freedom?” she asks. 

And she can see in his face that it is.

The lake is warm, it strokes their bodies

As they play foolish, half shy, half erotic games,

Splashing and diving so they often touch,

Quite unnecessarily, but they are free,

They are in love, they are love - and so it goes.

At the last then, they lie at peace in each other’s arms,

The Suns and laughing breeze drying them. 

They doze, there is no hurry. 

And then, as the day slowly closes,

And the oranges, purples and yellows

Splash across the sky,

They rise and saunter, arm in arm, up the rolling hill. 

They know where they are going now, these Lovers,

They know now because they are free.

And there upon the other side the house stands,

At the terminus of an avenue of mighty oaks,

Straight fronted, with a croquet lawn

And tall windows lighting high rooms.

The door is open and as the chill of the night

Comes to caress their skin with still tender care,

The Lovers enter and (re) turn to their place.

The fire is chuckling softly and books,

Full of told and untold stories,

Some tragic, some filled with joy,

Some of the past, some of the future,

Line the walls, lives in review,

And theirs upon a small, gold inlaid table lies,

Open, with blank pages waiting to be writ. 

There is music in the air, unknown and haunting,

Talking of yesterday’s sadness, making tomorrow’s joy.

They sit then, upon soft cushions on the floor,

Side by side, always touching, and watch the flames

As their music heals old wounds, washes away old guilts

And, most tender, joins their hearts.

The Lovers know that they may have to go back,

May part, but not now, this now in this magic place,

Existing between one breath and another,

This endless and non-existent now,

The now where there is freedom, and alone, finally alone,

They can become their true partnership,

A union, and a one, together, eternal,

For the house and the lake, the avenue and tall rooms

Will always be there, always waiting,

A world always accessible to their love.

And you may ask if their world is real,

And I must answer, yes, perhaps; why not?

For in an infinite universe, with infinite possibilities,

Anything may be real, anything may happen. 

But only if one dreams, for the dreams of today

May be the reality of tomorrow. 

If one chooses, though, not to dream,

Fearful of the consequences,

Then the mundane, the grey,

Gloomy and stony world continues,

And Lovers never find their gate,

Or perhaps, they find it and do not know

It passes through to the Freedom World;

But the very worst is, the tragedy

Of those to be lost and hollow souls,

They find it and know what it is but

Are too frightened to enter in.

Dreaming is dangerous

And dreams can hurt;

They are open to disillusion and bitterness,

But without dreams there is no chance for change,

For new learning, new Love. 

Without the romance of dreams

No songs would be written, no poems, no music;

Paintings would be created by engineers

And tears and laughter would slowly

Fade from our shrivelled souls.

And the World without dreams?

Well, yes it would have less pain,

But there would be no adventure,

Perhaps, too, even the birds would no longer sing,

The wind cease its melancholy sigh,

The waves no longer sing a siren song

Calling us to wander the seas,

And there would be no chance,

No desire, no wanderlust, no thought

Of travelling on down the glory road.

Let the two Suns shine on the Freedom World,

Let our lovers lie by the crackling fire,

Wrapped in each other’s arms,

Clothed in their consuming love,

Together in a hope

That makes music and poetry all its own.

And, too, let their love reach out

And help them to dance among the stars,

For Lovers dancing, one with the other,

Among the stars is the true,

The ultimate dream made reality,

For that way heaven lies.  

If You Should Love Me:

If you should love me,
Love me not for my words,
For I am so much more than my words,
And so much less.
Love me, if you would,
For I am of Star Stuff made.
I was there at the Big Bang,
And I will be there when
The show closes,
And the final curtain falls.

And if you would love me,
For I am of Star Stuff made,
Love too yourself,
For you have been with me
On this journey,
As have all others,
And all things, ever,
Which have been parts of us,
And we, parts of them,
Be it the child dying of starvation,
Or the linnet singing out with joy.

And love me too for being a child of
The ineffable,
That is all love,
And breathed life into me,
And gave me that part of it
Which we call soul,
As s/he did with the dying child
And the merry linnet,
And celebrate that s/he
Did the same for you.

All is of Star Stuff made,
All is ineffable mystery,
And so it is that I am me,
You are you,
So too the dying child,
And the singing bird.
Though it makes little sense at times,
Know that it is, and does
To an ineffable something
Which we can name as Love,
And rail against for all the misery,
All we cannot understand,
Though we of Star Stuff are made
And will always be.

And consider, too, the atoms
Which came to form me
And you,
The bird,
The child,
And have crossed both time and space
Since 13.7 billion years ago,
Making this, making that,
Changing but always, always surviving.

Consider, too, those atoms,
As 3.8 billion years ago
They joined
In that most precious of states,
Life!

Think now on how through
Those billions of years,
That which is you
But is not all of you,
Changed, through struggle,
Death and rebirth,
Time after time after time,
And at the last your direct
Sentient and humanoid ancestors became,
The first in the line,
Just 6 or 7 million years ago,
The blink of an ineffable
Eye in the history of all
That is and ever has been.

Love me too for my tenacity
Over 13.7 billion years.
Love me for the breath of the
Ineffable that gave me soul,
And love yourself likewise
And all other things besides;
The linnet and the babe,
The enemy and the friend,
The beasts and our planet home,
For we are all joined as one,
And we all are of Star Stuff made.