By Imogen Harrison
I perch, legs dangling-
toes clenched (to keep my socks and shoes on)
-upon the precipice, the ledge of wet sand
at which light turns to dark, in the haze of dusk.
And all things end. Less of a bang than a whine.
No stranger to endings, I think, they’re
fertile ground if you’re thinking of beginning.
And I watch him work –
really, out of nothing, but that’s hard to imagine,
so I’ll give you a hint;
he’s like a motorbike, headlamp dimming, fading
speeding out of the gloom on the oily asphalt,
glittering with glass and stars; throwing up waves
of almost-creatures in the heaving dust of
ribs and fruit,
clattering and rolling in his wake. Settling.
And the high-rises climb over the horizon,
glittering, getting their bearings –
planting pipes like roots into the earth that keeps
the waters from the waters.
And, watching this, it seems it’s always existed.
The kneading of creation and un-creation –
the crumbling of it all into
universe soup –
can be This:
