There was a space.

At first it was a nothing space,
or so it seemed.
No walls or barriers limiting it,
no beginning nor end to it.
And yet came the feeling
that beginning and end
both began here.

But nothing is at it seems,
and little by little it could be seen
that the space
pulsated,
and had colour -
not colour such as the eye could distinguish
or try to define.
It was the colour
of not having no colour.
It shifted and changed,
and took slow dances through the space it ranged,
until it could be said
that space had ceased to be space,
but simply was.

As the colour danced
it shifted and changed
to reveal slowly the shadow of a figure.
The figure had not been there before,
nor yet had it arrived.
The light had simply rearranged itself
to reveal the form.

The figure was tranquil,
a still point in the midst of the dance,
no victim of chance,
but as certain of its existence
as in the certainty
that beginning and end
had their being one with each other
here
at this point of eternity.

The figure appeared to be seated -
not on anything,
nor at anything,
yet seated.
His features carried the air
of thoughtful
inward
contemplation.

And JOY.

Solemn Joy,
bubbling within,
till the Joy flowed out
and mixed with the colour,
danced with it,
and gave the colour its life.

The figure was alone.

And he took a fragment of colour,
moulded it,
shaped it,
till it became a pen of light.
And he laid flat another swirl of colour,
smoothed out hidden wrinkles with careful gesture,
and with the pen of light
began to write.

A poem.

The writer poured into his poem
his heart of love,
his heart of joy,
and his longing.
He spoke of the light
and of its joining,
of liquid light
and its pouring.
And how the stream took shape and form,
and how the form found boundary and mooring.

He brought to his poem a new thought -
of dividing,
of space being empty and full.
And he told of a fullness new to the light,
around which it moved,
and to which it gave life &-
a new world taking shape in day’s dawning.

As the writer wrote his poem,
under him formed a hillside,
and as he spoke of trees,
they budded around him.

He spoke of fruit and flowers,
of plum and cherry,
of sun and showers,
and ripening berry.
He wrote of wheat,
and fresh-scented heather,
of storm clouds and heat,
and of calm, and of breath.

As his pen moved on the page,
the words took life,
and Joy found shape.
Joy sang,
and in the singing
found its winging to the light.
Flight of bird,
flick of fin,
all shapes, colours,
serious, absurd,
squat and thin.

Living Joy.

Down the hillside and further than eye could see
danced Joy
and filled the world.
And the writer laughed
in Joy found form.

The writer would have stopped his poem,
but he was still alone.
So he bent his pen
and wrote again.
A new song this,
filled of more of himself
than he had ever written before.
He fashioned words with care,
and signed them with his heart.

He wrote words of pageantry
and simple pleasantry,
of fellowship,
of toddling footstep,
of growing and learning,
of knowing and yearning.
And as his pen moved,
again danced the words
and took shape.

Away down the hill to a flautist’s gay trill
the cavalcade moved in its dance.
They chatted and sang and passed in a throng
to the plain at the foot of the hill.