Sleight-Of-Hand
March on sweet
chariot!
For your grains ever crown
The aspiring pyramid enshrined
In my glass body.
I weep not for
the castles
That your tides, cold winds and rains
Batter and shatter and carry off fragmented,
For they are borne as they were born -
Springing magically from a grain.
Your hands,
shaken, overreach
The circles that they themselves inscribe,
Inviting effortless ripples on an
Infinite lake of experience;
The seconds outstride the hours,
The minutes the days.
So march on
sweet chariot
For your grains will ever crown
The aspiring pyramid while it is
Enshrined in my glass body.
Defined by your
geometry,
I delight in the magic that denies it.
Adrian Hoad-Reddick