Patience Tuckwell
Enigma
O lord, support
all the day long
he whom you have
builded wrong.
Squirrel of the children he
hoarding to himself the map
of his singularity.
Through his half eyes
in thrust back head
what he sees
he has not said
his squirrel fingers do not well
clutch the things he loves, and still
unsprung his tongue his loves to tell.
O lord, a lark
trapped in his breast
that beats
and will not give him rest.
Inside his mouth it beats its wings
and stops his lips and makes him cry
and quivering in him it sings.
Lord, loose the lark
that here is trapped
and trace the maze
that you have mapped.
Squirrel light yet lead with weight
what you mismade do not desert
speak to the inarticulate.
Page(s) 255
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