I sit on a bench in a warm-lit place,
    this familiar garden which oft feels still
though today the sounds of some avian race
    are thicker, more golden, the air more full
and I’m overcome by their temporal evidence:
    Their relentless existence that means a beginning.
        Every tune and rustle that ends began.
Time is a providence,
    to grant glorious movements, seasons and innings
        and through every age, to give more to man.

In time I bow, beneath the sky
    its horizon a halo around my view
not seen but felt, as some watching face
    a light of gold, or every hue.
It shines over grass and on my skin –
    material touched by the immaterial
        and more than touching, it bonds, sustains
like no created thing;
    an untouchable source, powerfully imperial,
        a dimension beyond design. My mind strains…

My eyes are drawn to where I cannot see
    beyond the medieval and the ancient
to stretch past men and a landless sea
    before the beginnings of sapiens sentient
and as all light unbirths I behold
    a being, ethereal, no universe around
        no time upon which such skates.
Yet the Spirit is old
    and of it a silent peace abounds.
        Such I see, then my soul shakes.

All is bright. From the peace emanates
    a whisper – unbearably strong due
to the nothing which otherwise permeates.
    Obedience occurs, from it and through,
measures become and planets condense.
    Always I’ll remember that first formation:
        the genesis of time, the labour of deity
which prompts: From whence
    came such a God, who before creation
        am who he am: Spirit of Aseity?