By Jonathon Penny
This is a rather wretched place,
All things considered:
More paradox than paradise;
A poky little patch of dust and scrub
Now parched, now drowned,
Shaken and, as often, stirred;
A heaven gone to ground,
Ground gone to seed,
Thorn- and thistle-crowned
And for the very birds—
The dove, the hardy thrush,
The brown chat with his melancholy word.
It’s an abated wish,
This dense and dropping orb,
A momentary, dark, full-throated hush;
A nascent sun, an infant star,
This crib of Adam-Christ:
Worth falling and worth rising for.
(Originally published in Wilderness Interface Zone)
