The Third Eye

Whose is the calm, invisible hand that points,
Directs and controls the machine that frames us and detect-
s how I totter on stumpy pins with pudgy joints,
Some sudden instinct of losses to come reflect-
ed in my boxy, chubby face?  Who is behind
The engendering camera, secretly cradling my im-
age, as a man with a fine mane of hair kind-
ly assuages the cub’s fear that is obvious to him, 
His form and stamp, mirroring mine, wedge-
d squarely against the rocks?  Years later,
Despite quotidian negligence, the photo is still leg-
ible, and the simple truth embodied in its gaze yet greater.
For always, watching and waiting lovingly, there is another,
Selfless presence, a third eye: my mother.

(17.4.1999)

Missing And Meeting Jesus

I first met Jesus in the Scottish highlands.
I was sitting in my car, admiring the sheep-dotted moor,
When this bearded man-boy appeared.  In his hands
A sheaf of grubby paper; around his body a poor
Grimy raincoat.  He was shod with gym-shoes.
He wished to draw my portrait; I replied shirt-
ily.  Later, on the road, he thumbed a lift.  I refus-
ed, avoiding him for the second time.  Transfigured with hurt,
He turned up his hands and threw back his head.  Year-
s passed: another encounter, on the posh express-
Train to Vienna.  No picture, he was disguised with the biggest rump
I ever wedged against.  But as he re-appear-
ed from the bog, trouser-soiled and with a bloody finger, I guess-
ed at once, and humbly gave a plaster to this paschal lump.

(4.3.1999)