by David Taylor
Words why do you seeming fail
to reveal the source from which you fall?
Why pale and grey in black on white,
why with deep colours, do you not write
and reveal that place from whence you come?
Is that the center of the Sun?
What was there before you formed,
before the first consonant was born?
Was it the vowel so freely aired,
did that announce the dawn
before we were adorned with cares?
Was that the time the Angels sung?
And then before the vowel
was it darkness that prevailed?
But what beauty must be there,
shrouded from our piercing stare?
And before the darkness found its place,
tell me what was there in unlit space?
And then before the unlit space
did silence reign and roar
with no time to ask for more?
And if each word is followed home
will we find what is our own?
Is it that, from which you come,
that from which each word is spun?