wordsout by Godfrey Rust                                       The place where socks go    HOME



The Gallery

In the first room is 
a painting. It is probably a miracle
(miracles were commonplace then):
a figure on a grassy slope
with hands outstretched
towards a multitude, eyes
fixed forever in the unreal colours
of the lacquered pages
of a child's first bible.

In the next room is
a photograph of a face,
a black and white, moral Victorian face
imprinted on the conscience
like a negative, developed
in the darkroom of
adolescent guilt.

In the third room are
the remains of a diagram, a design
for God's central nervous system
which ran out of dimensions.

In the last, 
which is an upper room, is
no canvas wide enough
on which to stretch out
the skewered arms of Love;
no photographic fixer
with the power to hold
the crimson stains of Mercy;
no technology to reproduce
a blueprint of the workings
of the heart of Grace;
no picture 
small enough to be contained
within the universe's
delicately-fashioned
frame.