I Can't Answer Every Question Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

I can't answer every question, sweet child.
My mind is not a camera - it is
A wide river running forever wild
It takes a panoramic view - it is
A ladle in the hot soup bowl of life
I am but bread and water, the gruel.
That passes from hand to mouth; still rife.
With all the waters that fountain jewel.

Springing up or falling in on you, the moist dew
Those trembles, pearly now, have more answers.
Then all the scientists and birds -singing—view.
Ah, crystal thoughts hang on you with lanterns.
Lit and yet, child, you think my heart is glib.
While believing a woman was made a slave.
To carry and fetch for you, of one rib,
Was not the world made, my dear little knave?