Six Days On Poem by Leon Moon

Six days on
And still the shepherd sings the song,
Hunting pastures for his inheritance
At ease with either discoveries:
Flocks of clay that silently defy
Landmarks that misshape man
Declaring him a native
Do not claim his coiled land;
He refuses to be a fugitive,
Droplets smoulder under his feet
And he is untouched by the wages
That maintain his space and meat,
He lacks in the word
Impatience, as mute as the order
Of unmoved rock
Perfected in death
And immaculate belonging.

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Six days on
And half the world spun
And the other half gone;
His sacred operation
To weld the earthly gong
Has been rolled alongside
The tobacco and frankincense
Perishing diadems of the sun.
Tomorrow is the vast centre
And work must praise the play
That dreams to rest
And sculpt God from that same self-made clay;
'Ere, his pride
Inflicting pressure on his waist and cain
Follows no vision, no emulsion
Just witness to the heart's expulsion.