Graceless Saviour



I’m nothing special. My life is all on loan.

Take a river fish, and make of its tight

Silvered movements and its leaf-like bones

Five thousand savouring thoughts:


Take one dry crust, crumble all its ashes

Into the wind, and feed the barren soil.

Have mercy on your friend’s disloyal kisses,

A sucker for martyrs, whatever style


A dozen men would like. And that’s enough.

Once water has been splashed around

From my brazen glass, dry in the mouth,

Though I am no saviour, you’ll taste the wine.


It takes no grace, no heavenly design

To help mute men to see, and blind men sing.