by Kieron Winn
That sky was once God's palm or starry cloak,
A shell, a fitted lid, an upturned cup.
Now it has shivered into deep, cold space.
No centre, no purpose: it should be liberation.
I pull the curtains, turn to the small bright room,
My lover reading, wine, the cat content.
If only this were the one world of thought
And I could end my grief for God the Father.
[from The Oxford Magazine (No. 235, Fourth Week, Hilary Term 2005: Oxford University Press)]
Copyright © 2005, Kieron Winn.
Reproduced for personal use only: do not circulate.