The Sculptor
As in the mind of the sculptor
who sees a face or figure
to be revealed
in a block of stone or caressed
into form out of a lump of clay,
the sacred too is held hidden
within the appearance
of ordinary things.
I seldom notice
in the hurry and self occupied
focus of my life the profound
silence that lays at the core
of the magpie's exquisite song,
the still across which clouds move,
the emptiness into which
all the contents of a day are poured.
And in the turmoil that sometimes
rages through my mind
am I aware of the calm
at the very centre of who I am
and in the essence
of all created things. Nor do I
grasp eternity along whose
endless path time ticks out
its measured steps
and my life on this planet
plying a universe that seems
to be expanding into
an unanswerable mystery,
a Mind writing itself in matter
and gifting me in its vast
unfolding, a part, a moment
of form.
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