| The Poetry of Richard Sansom Published by The British Sansom Society | |
 
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| At the Crow of the Rooster In the cheapest lair, the smallest bits of life there is . . . replication, never mind the complications endured to find that moment, it is found and found again. There is no knowledge superceding that which causes lips and fins, claws and horns, feelers, ghostly drifts of semen through clear waters to consider what it is they do for the sake of what’s to come. And yet all this dies eventually leaving deserts of bone and dried blood, and the landscape will turn over its green belly and become acrid gray, and even the cleverness of viruses will fade away and the memory of the memory of the memory will be gone as light leaving and attending another world, across the sea of stars, and the nothingness, overwhelming as it is, might be considered the purist kind of destiny . . . Would you want your passion and its results, however meager, to be thus cast upon a sea of infinite blight, a vacuum that sucks up meaning as well as light? Would you want even the sprig of ivy planted in spring to die a moment later as its due, to die because that is the way things are? Are you not chagrinned that whatever scene you see before you will be gone, profoundly so, carried away by the scythe of time which may occur at the crow of the rooster you hear next door? | |
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