The Blue Book

Colour Me In

See my corpse coloured
by your light of truth,
covered by mercy,
compassion and grace:
born together in our cosmic womb,
which makes of all light matter,
bound by the music of spheres.

Once, we thought this score
writ large across the planets,
each moving in a Platonic solid.
Then we imagined that perfection
was not above, but below:
made by little balls of light
and large, empty spaces;
each a carbon copy
which never decays, but is passed
from star to burning star before
moving for a moment in you.

It should be no surprise, then,
in all this time now passed:
what Pythagoras discovered
about number, length, weight,
and how they relate to music
informs the way
we model subatomic waves;
probable particles purified
in spinning palette wheels,
nodes of an infinite pattern,
discrete and continuous,
dynamic and permanent,
change without change
singing across empty space
in superb symmetry:

As in all light
so in all forms.



A Beautiful Question

In Arameic