Poetry

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WORK IN PROGRESS

The world's an untidy place;
Things all out of joint.
So many cast off dreams scattered,
Vows that mattered, littered higgledy-piggledy,
Wriggly worms of guilt seek out young flesh,
Freshly opened leaves fall prey to jaws.
Flaws there are in every living thing,
Though Spring in her exuberance blinds us to the fact.

What unpardonable lack of tact has caused this wrong?
Ah, an enemy has done this;
The world's deceiver.

And whilst the whole creation groans
Benighted man moans,
And presses in his prayers for some release,
Trusting in the good news long reported
That all this present mess is being sorted.

There is a new creation in the making,
The time for tears is coming to an end.
Poetry we make each day will rhyme.
The music that we play will harmonize.
And we shall rise, surprised,
To marvel at the tidiness of things.
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9.6.01
www.thinkingpoet.co.uk

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