No Earthbound Thing
The Cantus Mariales now have ended.
I’m gazing at the heavens, and they seem
serene, unchanging. They are not. A bird
swims through that vast expanse as if it had
no project to set foot on land. The pale
pink clouds of dawn are white now, on their blue
unbroken canvas. At their feet – the squat
and jumbled realm of earthbound things, which are
my stamping grounds. If there should come a day
when more than light descended on the globe
as we pursued our business – when the clouds
might open to reveal some entity
whose home is unlike ours – I would not bat
an eye, I would not spill my cup of tea:
each newborn instant threatens it. Above
our busy heads, the sky calls out to all
the dreamers, the far-sighted. And it says
that it is quite unlike our world. The things
that matter to us, it holds cheap. And we
have little time for sunrise in the East,
but it comes daily. As the birds propel
themselves through air, I hear the singer yet.
He’s speaking of what’s holy. And my heart –
no earthbound thing – climbs up with every note.
John Claiborne Isbell was born in Seattle, USA and later lived in Europe and the United Kingdom, where he went to school. He has been teaching languages for some time, teaching French and German at universities in the United Kingdom and the United States. He has published various books, including a volume of poetry, Allegro, with a picture of a cello on the cover. Two more books came out recently, both about women authors.
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