Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Simon Leake writes

(one day old)

Beyond your still waking face,
soft down, bones yet to harden
to this reality, it’s your fingers
that fascinate: so mature already
as if everything they are to touch
is already imprinted in fine folds.
Hopefully more play than work
and even better that you find
play in work also. For now
they grasp at dreams of feeling,
testing the air for possibilities
yet to be given shape.

 Image result for baby fingers painting


  1. I love your first and third sentence. To me, it seems the concept of work and play in the middle sentence is out of place and too concrete. The marvel of a sentient being on it's first day observing the world is spectacularly described in those two sentences.

  2. Hi Benny. Many thanks for your response. The poem was a very immediate response to an event. I'd been reading about eastern/buddhist views on work and play being part of the same whole - so I guess that got into the poem somehow.


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