Grandson

Subwhelm me now.

Into the universal consciousness,

take this tired and failing pseudopod

from where to here, - still driven as it is 

to reenact that first splitting 

and penetration.

We can still be startled into unity simply

by a chaos of red berries, hawthorn splayed,

or the gently falling eyelash, virgin snow;

we are  the continuance of the great division,

that eternally heralds spring.

Announced by little things, we are

codicils of summer's fleeing greener past,

often trodden into rebirth without thought,

transmogrified into the sweet unscented child,

gaze still connected to the galaxy of womb,

distance yet to be learned.

Under a child’s observation, I examine 

and learn of a life story still not fully told;

more to be shared of this reawakened life,

joined as we are, in an ancient repetition.

© Niall OConnor 2019