I dream of the silence
the day before Adam came
to name the animals,

The gold skins newly dropped
from God's bright fingers, still 
implicit with the light.

A day like this, perhaps:
a winter whiteness
haunting the creation,

as we are sometimes
haunted by the space
we fill, or by the forms

we might have known
before the names,
beyond the gloss of things.

Added: Feb 21 2003 | Viewed: 557 times | Comments (0)

Poet: John Burnside
Poem: Septuagesima

There are no comments for this poem. Why not be the first one to post something about it?

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, Septuagesima, has not yet been commented on. You can click here to be the first to post a comment about it. Of course you can also always discuss poems by John Burnside with others on the Poetry Connection poetry forum!