Martin Robertson

Now and Then


The year wheels on into the same seasons

as last year and all earlier years spun through.

God, if there is a god, may have his reasons

for what he did and will or will not do.

To me it seems too odd.

I can’t envisage death

or life as acts of god.

And yet I can’t envisage life either

(or death) as an unordered jumble of things.

The fire, brutally quenched, was still a fire

whose high flame, even remembered, warms and sings.

Man’s acts and sufferings seem

equally dreadful, yet

I love man and his dream.