If we could pray. If
we could say we have come here
together, to grow into a tree,
if we could see our blue hands
holding up the moon, and hear
how small the sound is
when it slips through
our fingers into water,
when the meaning of words melts
away and sugarcane speaks
in fields more clearly
than our tongues,
when a child takes
a stick as long as itself
and rolls a wheel
down a lane on wings of dust,
in control, would we
think then that we should thank
someone? If we knew
we could turn, and turning
feel that things could be different.
But we are unused
to gratitude, if we could lose
our pride, bend down
look for peace on the iron
ground. If we could
kneel.
~ from The Terrorist At My Table (Bloodaxe Books, 2006)
