Trying to find Jesus
He's trying to find Jesus, he's looking
up references in the Qur'an,
he's got his box file, ESCHATOLOGY,
the gospels in Greek, guides to Jerusalem.
He's watching petals bend to a bee's weight,
snap back as the bee moves on to the brushed blue
of the sky, where a single lapsed cloud
sends eight drops to splash on his dusty table.
He's trying to find Jesus. In patio cracks
is life that shouldn't be there, straining up
from the gap of earth between the slabs,
almost, these days, like a resurrection.
If you've any comment on this poem, Philip Wilson would be pleased to hear from you.