Before birth, before your book opens,
I have you working out a story; to be traveling
without shadow, baggy trousered. I reckon
the plot will be discussed and, then alone,
you muster provisions; chubby fingers, thick neck,
bigger tongue, hooded eyes – oh - and a heart!
I hear from mystics it was like this.
Pounding of blood in the ear, in the brain,
(like the sea) as you set out, naked, clumsy,
across stony ground, surefooted,
with your oil lamp yet unlit, trudging,
knowing we need that light, a sacrifice
as if we'll have a better chance, wrongfooted.