I think you get the picture –

            Still life, apples,

            Pointillism, morning light

            From the perfect distance

            Three crisp jesters

            Ready to be juggled,

            Closer up

            The strangest kind of map –

            Brambles, thickets, slippery dew,

            Even a mirage 

            I prefer to pick our way

            Not looking back –

            I know enough of leaves

            And unguents, brine, decay,

            The savagery of power –

            Nor searching for a resting place

            Except to pause before

            The carcasses of beauty

            Listening for a still small voice

            We can never say enough

            Whether the prayer is brief,

            Something to repeat

            Over and over to each other,

            A tough cloak spun

            Or better yet

            Is made up

            As we go along