I dream of the silence
the day before Adam came
to name the animals,

The gold skins newly dropped
from God's bright fingers, still 
implicit with the light.
A day like this, perhaps: a winter whiteness haunting the creation, as we are sometimes haunted by the space we fill, or by the forms we might have known before the names, beyond the gloss of things.

Poem by
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - SeptuagesimaEmail Poem | Create an image from this poem

Top John Burnside Poems

Analysis and Comments on Septuagesima

Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Septuagesima here.