blisters in the sky
Giving us our radiance
And each planet in ellipse
Where the matter gravitates
As a vacuum sucks us in
Its infinite and programmed byte,
Down the black hole of our chances
Time's gold chariot galloping,
Reined by double-spiralled chains.
We are human and we know it-
That's the solace that the bird
Cannot muster as it migrating
Under the weasels and whales of clouds.
What pattern comes- we can only guess it,
But at evening we go on,
For the sunrise praises all
When we raise our heads at dawn
And feel that pristine density ...
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Peter Nicholson's poem, "Official Secrets", can be seen on his site: http://peternicholson.byteserve.com.au/