I see it in a rotting leaf, that stuff, rich tilth for springing growth.

It blazes in the funeral pyre, the wind and flames, renewing fire.

I lift it in half-empty glass, a space for poor to contribute

their effervescent energy, in pouring out what wealthy lack.

It’s in the vacant page before the poet strings their rhythmic codes,

or writer casts creative spell to summon, from each well, its course;

the artists’ touch which captivates, holds eye and ear through taste and scent,

those pheromones, holistic sense, that reach far places, abhorred space.

Sun’s daily rise, fall, season’s dress share patent glories, obvious,

but latent power, dismissed, forgot, released from pit in global storms,

is kingdom pearl most worlds ignore, but stirs a beauty in my soul;

a commonwealth of patient stealth, the holy stuff for commonweal.


Used by permission of the author.

Stephen Kingsnorth

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had over ...more