Sceptics say God is an illusion,
a figment of human imagination,
a sure sign of self-delusion.
They deride the contradiction
A haunting sound is heard softly whistling,
like a magic flute in the distance playing,
luring summer leaves to hum and sway,
to don new colours, dance and play;
Silent images flashed on my TV screen:
a child, in rags, sat on a stone
amid smouldering huts, all alone,
his bewildered eyes scanned the scene.
Gaya stirred, moved beneath the ocean,
caused uproar in the realm of Poseidon.
Frenzied with rage, frothing at the mouth,
his chargers rushed her idyllic shores,
Caught between a rock and a hard place
certainties vanish into the far distance,
doubts loom large like a spectre of doom;
I am confused, trapped in my little room.
I used to look askance at him, kept my distance,
'Help of the helpless' they called him, I disagreed.
How could he be a source of comfort and solace,
when he is never at hand when most needed?
As though by some eternal decree
Land and Sea are destined to disagree
over where the shoreline should be.
Still young and green
I went to a pub
in the mill town of Halifax
and landed myself in a fix.
I saw her, I didn't need a second glance;
rushed to ask her, 'May I have this dance? '
Somehow I knew her answer would be yes,
and to the Rumba rhythm we danced close.
Once, I roamed freely,
winging between land and sky.
Now I am caged in an alien land.
One day I will venture beyond.