Christopher Haywood Poet Narrative

Notes About The Poem

It morphs from a simple philosophical meditation to a grand, almost cosmic experience. The final assertion—that God is found in the act of witnessing—serves as a bridge between the scientific awe of the universe and traditional spiritual reverence. 

Unmapped Light

The dog goes still and tilts a heavy head, 
To catch a whistle pitched above the wind; 
I watch the clouds, by unseen fingers spread, 
And wonder where the boundary has thinned. 
They say the sky is scripted, line by line, 
A closed-off room where only we are kept— 
But then a pulse, a stutter in the design, 
Wakes the silence where the stars have slept.

Does He allow for fire in foreign cold?
Or is this just a trick of tired sight? 
The scripture feels too small, too neatly told, 
To house the ghosts that flicker in the night. 
The men of logic ask for iron proof, 
A heavy weight to anchor down the soul, 
While I sit quiet on the cool night’s roof, 
Watching the fragments drift to make a whole.

We are not gods; we are the ones who stare, 
Constructing altars out of stone and fear. 
Whatever breathes within that thin, sharp air, 
It leaves a question hanging in the clear. 
And if it’s truth, it won't be found in charts 
Or measured out by how we name the spheres, 
But in the way it unstrings human hearts 
And leaves us small, beneath the grinding years.

Then, the sudden tear—the curtain drawn— 
Revealing depths where ancient engines hum; 
The terror of a dark and nameless dawn, 
The beating heart of all that is to come. 
Not iron ships, but light that knows no name, 
A vast unfolding of the hidden mind; 
We stand beneath the roar of solar flame, 
And leave our narrow, earthly truths behind. 

Oh, how the heavens open, wide and vast, 
To swallow up the pride of what we knew; 
We find our place within the mold at last, 
Drowned in the awe of all the bright and new. 
To gaze upon the infinite is prayer, 
And God is waiting, breathing in the air.

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