! That Bit Of Pinky Stuff On The Carpet

What is it doing on the clean carpet, that bit of pink something? Not a curse upon the house-proud nor a criticising comment on the housekeeper, or retribution for the gap under the front door, or – it it’s blown in from the garden – a hint of early autumn threatening poetic sadness or a reminder of the fragile evanescence of all things it is a whisper from God which has eluded the debris whirling between stars, the heat of the sun, its solar dust, the icy-cold of atmospheres, airless space of ether, antennae of early-warning systems, hover of spy-planes, click and silent breath of listening devices, tick tick tick of incriminating tapes recording, unforgiving eye of spy cameras, the chatter of minds forever elsewhere, it is a petal shed from the geranium outside the door, of the most delicate, almost transparent pink no rose no shell no just itself of a fine fine substance which no man can yet make on its long, long pilgrimage from beyond the whole vast cosmos of innumerable solar systems, beyond where space bends upon itself in homage where the mind of God dwells to find itself again in my suddenly open heart as if it had never travelled from or to, this whisper of pinky-rosy-shell-like stuff on the carpet by the warm bare foot.