There’s testament in old lore text –
our schooling taught of supplicants,
the desolate prostrate with dread,
who begged their Lord for judgement here,
as eyes of men blinded by scales,
wealth of the earth gained purchase, truth.
The widow pleads as shades surround,
an incense rising from her fear,
aggrieved, incensed at wrong imposed;
the poor deprived of just reward,
for rich tip balance on their side,
rip blindfold, pride of fair regard,
where bribery swings scales from plumb.
When line diverges from the true,
divine geometry askew,
justice and mercy flounder, ground,
for right is levelled, wounded, flat,
its debris scattered through the land.
But look to the created forms,
design inherent, growth from soil.
In the first garden, Eden’s law,
before the craft of thinking minds,
affronted, prides of Babel towers,
the patterns laid from prior store.
Though those plants set frame sample there,
insentient, they could not share;
without voice, the succulent’s prayer
is found in what man dares to hear.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, most recently The Sweetycat Press, The Parliament Literary Magazine, Mad Swirl, Grand Little Things, Poetry Potion, Stone Poetry Journal.
He is a nominee for the Pushcart Prize this year.