Even Stephen

Do not question, said the Pope,

the God-engendered bang.

In the beginning He Was,

and so is Now; without Him

we are puffs of smoke,

all formality gone.

You hawked at faith still

A mind, slumped in a wheelchair,

freed by electronics,

questioning God’s syntax

and finger tapping visions

of space He did not shape.

A finite echo in your skull

mimed God’s concentration.

No body’s seepage sapped the edge,

no bone confined the thought

that newer ghosts might pace

old corridors of time.

The Absolute I AM

will mourn His brightest son,

who savours Mother Nature’s

once forbidden fruit

and teeters down a street

to his spacious future.

©Terry Hodgson2020