Discrimination Poem by David Taylor

What mysteries does this keyboard hold
or the artists' pallet strewn with unformed colour
our life a sheet of parchment
waits our thoughts and deeds
as does a canvas wait for brush
or keyboard waits the fingered hand
that never knows the way to say what's said
but with resolution makes a firm impression in the sand
and how we seek to change and make our mark
above stars shine and moonlight smiles
as the wind erases all the words
that time and travels have fashioned in this man
Your light has no season
but my memory makes it seeming so.
If I could but know the permanent from that
which comes and then must surely go.