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Foundations

"To build on these foundations," said the self-
styled architect, leaning elbow on shelf,
rapping rough bleeding knuckles on bricks of no dust
and kicking stacked heels on grills free of rust

"is the work of a lifetime, a task to achieve
on a base reinforced by the things I believe;
I succeed, am content and the pinnacles high
sear unrealised ambitions in infinite sky."

I silently watched as the splintering flaw
menaced discretely with threatening jaw.
I was merely a child of inquisitive mind
small enough to crawl through and observe what I find

the foundation's extent, not as far as supposed,
just a block in the earth and of earth was composed,
the worms slithered silently onwards and round
and the mole scrabbled anarchy under the ground,

larvae and chrysalises slept with no thought
of the time that passed by; in a void were they caught
to perform their one function of growing for spring
when decisions of others could touch not their wing.

I returned to the daylight and sheltered my eyes
as ever the monument columns did rise
and flowers gay spiraled and popinjays sung
of the beetle completing his tower of dung.

Now compassion has clouded my eye to a mist
for the builder of dreams with a trowel in his fist
and his friend with a spade for his mecca will save
by digging the earth for the architect's grave.

To horizons' extents rise spires to a peak
and fall as foundations are time-rendered weak
like the waves of a sea or a field of wild grass
ever-rising to die, destined never to last,

for the towers are founded on only one plane
through the one motivation of personal gain.

Learn more about this author, Pete Willow.
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