Edwin Thumboo
A Call
That subtle, arching force
Which stirred the hills for us
Along the Morib road,
Pushed sunlight into shadow,
Drew the rainbow taut
To make our secret language
Bid everything to live, turned
My ache and wanting beautiful.
It is not gone, not passed.
There is uncommon burning here.
Therefore, these gifts
Of many kinds with power
Eluding time: a tree by
A ruined temple; moon-silvered
Ride; shrewd reclining gods;
A cry within the womb
Shaking roots of memory;
Rose persisting on the stem;
Contours of a kalpa; mead
Burnishing the lip of a horn;
Capes and oceans yet unfelt;
Lovely disordered waves;
Simplicities of a mending touch;
The joy of an uncanny, mutual,
Quick disarming thought;
A sudden sunset, a quietude
Sweeping across the sawas
To keep us whole,
As the hills insist,
As the sunlight looms.
