old disciples wait for their inheritance
they hear the church bells pealing
in another country

we’ve raised the sacred airy buildings
we’ve struggled with the pigments to create skies
we’ve scattered words to germinate abundance
and how would you describe our
tearing down the glory of
the rainforests?

we’ve passed on our genetic torches
we’ve loved and been abandoned
we’ve lusted and despaired and been inspired
and how would you describe our
piling up of stone and glass into a
vast cathedral?

we’ve gathered in the pumpkins from our gardens
we’ve set by cords of fire-wood for the winter
we’ve worshipped to the muslin sound of bees
and how would you describe our
plundering the carbon from this
precious earth?

we’ve dropped our youthful helpfulness
we’ve seen the secret signals of the master
we’ve heard the silence in the market place
and how would you describe the
focussed rage of we who put
mankind in space?

do not take it personally
you waiting old disciples
no need to fidget or grow fretful
what if we are only passing notions
in the revels of the
wiped out gods?