Poem: Alasdair Gray © 2005


The stones are lightly held between the roots
of hopeful lives that rise and rock like trees.
Their leaves shake several seasons in the air,
they feel a while the light for which they grow
and then are seasoned bare.

I do not live by hope, but certainty.
I hold stones tight: these are the things I know.
I build a tower of them. I do not grow.
Distrustful of the air through which I go
I rise, back foremost, slowly to the light.

A growing tree contains both rock and sun.
A loving man has made his facts catch fire
while the wise coward shuffles under him
a heap of facts: his tower is never done.
Cowards die clinging to their sullen heap
unheated by the light of their desire.

<< Previous Page
Next Page >>