I dream of the silence <br />the day before Adam came <br />to name the animals, <br /> <br />The gold skins newly dropped <br />from God's bright fingers, still <br />implicit with the light. <br /> <br />A day like this, perhaps: <br />a winter whiteness <br />haunting the creation, <br /> <br />as we are sometimes <br />haunted by the space <br />we fill, or by the forms <br /> <br />we might have known <br />before the names, <br />beyond the gloss of things.<br /><br />John Burnside<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/septuagesima/
