Simon Harrison
Reasons for Writing
The slovenly turn of day and day
gets under the skin of faith,
bleeds away conviction.
The blistering rasp of lie on lie
abrades the core of purpose,
chars and brittles conscience.
Expectancy is crumbled, pulverised
in the restless clench of time; mind and mood
unhinged, morning vows are evening perjured.
Here only, in the roll of rising words,
a caroled consolation: - creation; the rest
slow day-decay, the feel of growing failure.
But this small mark I make in minds unmet
sparks a moment, human, who I am,
illuminates divine, forever, what I came for.
Page(s) 109
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