“Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.”
Carolyn Crosby Wilson
IF I were God, I’d mould hills rolling low,
Smooth them and shape them, sift them deep with snow,
And scatter them with furze that they might lie
Softly, against the wide deep-tinted sky.
In slow caress my forming hand would linger,
Then a swift finger,
Down some long slope, half carelessly would break
A jagged course for melting snows to take,
The outscooped valley’s length they’d run, and then,
Skirting new hills, go slipping out of ken;
And distanced far, a low-hung sun I’d light,
And paint blue shadows on the rose-touched white;
Then, wearied, put aside my colours and my clay
And fashion paradise and man on some less perfect day.