En Route, The Wings Of Doves Poem by Mark Heathcote

Within the seeds of any given day
Hope is a pomegranate
In this indivisible joy,
Joy is a sweet, sacred fig
So let us then look
Introspectively and find
Ourselves and meditate
On this one true—god
On this, our negatively
Charged; spherical world.

Is he as you are
A vital spark
A vital energy
A horse-chestnut seed
Encased and entombed
Impartial to soil types.
Is he as you are
A pervasive luminous star
An omniscient fruit of knowledge
A neutral, reactionary
Or a non-reactionary atom
Fluxed, between loves.
Can he be smashed?
Can he be tamed?
Can he be superseded?
Soured or sweetened
Kernelled just the same
Into one abstracted heaven.

Today I turned
An old corner
And like a new sun
Consuming an old fire
Like the underbelly
Of a green wet stone
Again, newly turned over-
I inwardly, momentarily
Shone with the apprehending
Of life's cessation, translucent
As a waterfall, attaining
Its full, uneven flow
Skilfully, without meaning
I saw the clouds migrate
And the populous huddled
In the cold grey streets
Grey pigeons on mass
En route, the wings of doves.