At the end of time I will rise

Like today, go about my business

Talk to children, smile sometimes.

 

The sky - the real sky - shall shelter

And storm the earth still. Black soil shall

Breed many Satans still.

Azure clouds from which no rain falls

Shall mass on far horizons.

 

Large drops of rain shall fall, freezing into ice,

Falling into full sunshine.

Angels will lie about their whereabouts

Clerics, streaked with candle fat, will mumble incantations.

 

Here, the blossom-trees of stormy autumn shine

Into full-glassy pools, grain tumbles

From our mouths, Morning sings slumber again to wakened men.

Fish scatter circles of wet delight, shimmering

Swans couple: a dog fox tracks its droppings.

 

In the park, dodging the broken syringes,

On broken swings we play. All day. The sky - the real sky -

Shelters and storms us still. We sit and talk.

She asks such questions of me:

"Who made God, Dad?" Just like that.

Answer please!

The trees sway,

Leaves tumble down,

The town lights are on.