by Roy K Austin
What an enchanted loom the brain is-
the font of all our mortal sight,
but who to the vision of a man
is weaving it all with threads of light !
Not tailor-made as most would have
to cut a cloth to fit our want,
more like a game of hide and seek
or now you see it, now you don't-
a down-turned card that might be bluffing
that everything should come from, nothing?
The stars have called us from distraction
and tuned our senses to the bone
and voila! Sunlight,satisfaction-
red admiral on cambrian stone,
but who is it inside the claustrum
that stays young as we grow older,
that knows full well eternity,
that butterfly, now on my shoulder?