I never did ‘buy into’ the ‘miracle’ thing. Notions
Of happy accidents, that sort of thing. Didn’t sell.
That streams could flow uphill; that silent statues
Wept, unseen; those messages from a God,
Who had long solved the puzzle, leaving on his desk
A suicide note, explaining how he did it.
We all heard the story, we saw the headlines, so
I bought the reason, with no change left for chance.
I never bought miracle tinctures, poultices
Or remedies. I’ve never spent two pence
On rabbits’ feet or old saint’s bones, that rattle
Like a warding from my neck. I held my monies
Tight in my pocket, passing the fortune-teller’s
Tent, beckoned to see: held my fist so taut
For fear of the truth in it. No miracle did I,
As long as I had worth to give, once buy.
But miracles are given, and not sold.
The plastic beads, the nylon mesh to capture
Wanton dreams: they stayed, remaindered goods.
But tell me you’ve been kissed, perhaps just once;
Have awoken to a sight that gently rivals
Creation, sleeping before you; and been loved;
And that you don’t get miracles. I must say,
I’ll give you my two pence to see you try.
For Blair, the miracle-maker.