THE CRAFT

 A thought is forming
 It bleeds a pagan syllable
 one word of ancient blood
 onto the page
 
 At evening a blue haze pencils the horizon
 Time closes over creation
 broad burnished hands
 
 The thought has grown
 It is
 a candle like morning
 The wick is burning
 
 When it is dark
 When fog settles
 And the thought is
 A graven image to kneel at
 Profuse soundless
 
 Then it shall have children
 They shall haul fishlike onto land
 I am thinking of them
 

Copyright 1999, Robert James Berry
 

Dr Robert James Berry is on the Faculty of Languages and Communication at the Universiti Putra Malaysia in West Malaysia.