by Barrie Davies

Artwork by Jack Savage

The word itched, a slumber of intent before the word
Scented the blood of being, tossed against the rocks.

The ghost was already haunting the seed,
Scaring away the intangible into a flight of flesh.

The Cosmos cried before sound and tears had been invented,
A blister on the smooth fury of the beginning.

And when matter had burst her fruit asunder,
Wasting such a multitude of fertile juice
That beckoned love to prosper and slyly insinuate
Prior to the wicked, fatal bliss of Love.

There I was before the colour and cunning of I,
A bubble in the tar of creation when creation
Had never imagined creation,
Far less a homesick blood blossomed ruin of God.