Do you think that God only speaks
To those whose minds are right?
That only those who can discern
Truth from a maze of words
Will emerge to behold his face?
No sane man watches God walk in the wind,
Or learns to worship from the cat’s oblation.
Yet some can only view the maze from a branch
Where they perch making song with the cuckoo.
Their song is simply different from the owl
Yet both are regarded as the sparrow
And when the wind takes their wings they must sing.
We curse the wind
It blinds our sight
Our mind is pinned
Without the light
We cannot see
In our blind flight
We lose belief.
Without the construct of a hedge
To hedge our mental betting spree
We wander like we had it still
Along our same old, well-worn tracks
And even then our God will grow
No larger than our maze was pruned.
There they go round the mulberry bush,
The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush
There they go round the mulberry bush
For that is all they can do.
The mind can get in the way,
Of feeling the surf and spray.
But if you see a cat
And can meet Him in that
Then our hedge is too small to stay.
I am not one to advocate the tearing down of hedges,
But perhaps in our pruning of the manicured life,
In our constant snipping at the fringe element,
We have cut off buds which might bloom to flowers
More beautiful than we can ever comprehend.
In silencing the cuckoo
we silence one who has met God
And was left with only song.