Even Stephen
- Terry Hodgson
- Sep 29, 2020
- 1 min read
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
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