Burning Bush | Marie MacSweeney
Pacing that cold beach
of a dark night
you fish for truth
in those swathes of space
where a ship’s lighting
embraces the moon.
There is a slice
of sky and shingle
where you cast your nets,
spreading
starlight around you
for illumination.
The gods mock this,
their gimlet eyes fixed on you.
Bareback, they ride by
on bright horses, tossing
glitter sideways
as you slacken.
They sabotage your nets,
mutilate your catch
and the scraps
you have garnered are damaged
and drift away.
You need sorcery now, not science.
It arrives when the fire in your hearth
flames in the snowy bushes
of your garden,
and there is no need to infer purpose
other than the magic
of illusion.
