Herald

a poem

Let the high praises of God be in their throats
and two-edged swords in their hands…
to execute on them the judgment written.
This is honour for all his godly ones.

Psalm 149:6–9

Over the ruined patch in the forest
where the village people pitch their rubbish,
drag soiled mattresses and mangled trolleys,
leave melted tyres and putrid ash circles,
scatter cigarettes ends, broken bottles,
crumpled soda cans, and scraps of plastic,
clog the greasy stream with foul refuse,

the undaunted daffodil lifts its trumpet
to herald spring.

                                At the doomsday summons
countless creatures rise amid the ruins:
teeming life, of vegetable or insect,
undisdainful of the gross surroundings,
makes quick work transmuting even metal
into manna for the meek and lowly—
for bacteria and humble fungus,
worm and woodlouse, and the caterpillar
waiting for the day of his redemption,
the unseen wren in the brambles, brambles
and dandelions, which will inherit
the earth.

                    For there lives the dearest freshness
deep down things, and though the village people
sack and wrack the wood, all shall be well and
all shall be well and all manner of things
shall be well.

                           Thus spake the daffodil
and dropped to sleep.

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Since I wrote to you last, I have signed the contract for my book, This Way to Warmth, with Prisca Publishing. Our release date is in June, and I hope to have more news for you soon!