What, I wonder, would it be like to hear

The sound of his footfalls


On the shaded floor of the garden

In the cool of the day which he made,

Still bright from creation's first rain

And dripping in fruit and all that is good?


Or to hear His first question,

Asked of us all, the first sadness,

Ringing down through the ages:


"Where are you?"

Like an echo

Out from the mouth

Of some deep cave.


"Why do you hide?"

David N Rose