Get Your Premium Membership

Septuagesima

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

Poems are below...



Summaries, Analysis, and Information on "Septuagesima"

More Poems by John Burnside


Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry