IN
PRINCIPIO
the Evangelist
rapt in contemplation of the Word,
an eagle at his ear, his slender wrist
poised over the page, the bird poised,
contemplative, predatory, for the long flight.
This is the record of John, as of the scribe
in the monks’ scriptorium on the green isle
some fourteen hundred years ago, at the edge
of the known world – that world, margin to centre,
the unerring flight of a migratory bird.
Then, facing the illumination, blocks
of language, columns, they might be towers of stone
to withstand siege and temporal incursion,
born of the air, though, to be borne on air,
as on broad wings, migrating into time.
And this, the record of stone, a fine-grained
Bavarian limestone, it splits into thin slabs,
creamy and smooth – pages that, once turned,
disclose the print of fortune, left unread
a hundred-and-fifty million years and more.
It is Archaeopteryx, in the beginning,
cresting the wave of time, those first feathers
lifting it, buoying it on, until catastrophe
set it down, the molten instant set,
process, not progress, still less final form.
The gaping mouth, teeth bared, the pinions splayed,
nailed to that moment there, eternity
its inconceivable frame: this hieroglyph –
whose language, never held in mind, is silent –
launched upon prophecy, utters itself.