Weíre bored. What does he expect us to do
all day? Sunbathe? Talk to the animals?
Plant even more plants? Sing hymns, and praise him for
making it all so easy, endlessly?
Could he really think itís enough for us to coo
over each other, like all the horny mammals
(is it just for us sex soon becomes a chore?)
weíve named and catalogued? He says weíre free
but then that thereís one thing we mustnít touch,
and he tries to joke about forbidden fruit.
Itís funny how, whenever we go for a walk,
itís where we always end up. Why is it such
a magnet? Why such an arbitrary statute?
We stand there in the evening light, and gawk . . .
Weíre scared: since we were shown the only door
by his tame angel, itís been downhill all the way.
The lions we used to stroke and groom now try
to eat us. Winters are tough. Our stupid sons
have fallen out. Granted, itís certainly more
exciting, but itís a hell of a price to pay:
to wake up every morning wondering why
wisdom means caution, and thinking everyoneís
an enemy. If we could go back now
this time around would we know such happiness
is as good as it gets? But how long would that last?
What if the problemís deeper, and somehow
when stuck in the garden we yearn for the wilderness,
and vice versa, forgetting the flaws of the past?
Weíre bored: itís as though weíve seen it all before,
these flowers, these trees, this warmth, this calm, this wall,
these playful beasts . . .
Note:Beresheet means 'In the
Beginning' and is the opening word in Hebrew of the Book of
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Tom Vaughan would be pleased to hear them.