All Things Bright and Beautiful. A Poem by Viv Ring

Is hope a Lazarus delusion, another grief to bear
as we move from distress to distress?
The false is as loud as the real
in the turning, tossing night; birds
sing under street-light as though it were dawn,
the child runs towards lifted palm of a stranger
as if it were a High Five, not “Stop!” but “Hey!”.

Try looking at the sun at midday.
What colour is it, what shape?
There can be no answer,
we cannot know the sun
nor see behind us.
But we can hear even whispers there.
And see ahead.