Anon

We cannot read the works of space.
A spring of darkness, blundering rocks:
at times a letter or two we trace.

Stock-still in the thundering race
we watch as a new sign unlocks.
We cannot read the works of space

but start again, and find our place,
as in among vast stumbling-blocks
at times a letter or two we trace.

Towards the dark we turn our face.
Light drifts and darts in tumbling shocks.
We cannot read the works of space.

Even as the hands of Time erase
a crumbling text – we stop the clocks.
At times a letter or two we trace.

It is by way of the Earth’s grace
(a sudden understanding knocks)
we cannot read the works of space.
At times a letter or two we trace.