Eternal Lines
A potter pummels beauty back to clay;
a wayside preacher’s words evaporate.
Sometimes I chalk poems on brick walls –
one-day wonders rain scrubs clean at night –
and shout to passers-by to come and hear.
Others come and scribble poems too,
each in their idiolect: a dance of words
with none of us knowing the steps, our lines
weaving in and out cleverly and clumsily.
Each line rises and falls
with the perfection of a wave,
cresting, vanishing in the speechstream… … …
The unpredictable interlacing of the ripples
is the fingerprint of our common life.