BLAKE’S WILD FLOWER

Who knew,

Within the silence

That has fallen

On the world,

Such tapestries

Of sound

Would,

Woven,

Grow?



Bird call,

Footfall,

And in

The blossom blow -

The distanced stranger’s

Coy ‘Hello’.



Who knew,

Before the sky fell in,

The world was filled

With such bright colour?

That Time and Space

Elasticated,

Like a mind on mescaline?



Or that we would be given

To see

Such wonder,

A world in a grain of sand,

A heaven -

In Blake’s wild flower?

Infinity.

Eternity.



And how could

These things be,

Unless we also

Stare into the face

Of loss,

Of grief,

And see

Our own

Mortality.


DAVID O’CONNELL