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I
Am the Adam
I am the Adam.
I am my father
As
the father of my sonship,
The
Adam as of old.
I
am the innate gardener
Kneeling
in the sweet soil,
Seeding
and planting
Bringing
flowers of ineffable beauty
And
worshipping as kneeling,
Kneeling
as worshipping.
Around
me is the rare beauty,
Yet
not rare but commonplace
Since
rarity is the little seen and felt.
Here
I see all, from my kneeling
Whilst
the fragrance steals through
Leaves
and flowers and branches
And
overwhelms with
With
a rich delight,
A
sturdy stability of being,
An
assurance that all this beauty
Is
the gift of love from above.
Here
love is in the feathered creatures,
In
the movement of furred fauna,
In
the bright eyes gleaming
And
the delight of ceaseless play.
No
creature fears. I do not fear.
There
it was Eden's delight.
Here,
in this suburban garden
Nostalgia
prevails.
I
am a suburban Adam,
A
tiller of the soil, a lover of flora,
And
deep passion for the beauty
Once
lost to Eden, yet Eden's here
In
this front garden, the back yard,
The
shivering of leaves under breezes
The
plaintive call of the blackbird,
The
crowding of sparrows,
The
chittering and the chattering
Of
finches and the shrill sky call
Of
the passing rosellas, the harsh
Crying
of the cockatoos
Out
of the pure blue welkin.
Here
in my suburban Eden
The
memories crowd
More
potent even than the sparrows
Intent
on the largesse we give them-
My
wife and I. The memories crowd
Of
Mother Eve and Father Adam-
Our
progenitors, lovers of the
Singing,
humming bees in Eden's flowers
And
the other creatures singing too
Over
the abundant nectar, love's provision
Above
the translucent water
That
laughs in its passing
Or
reposes under the ferns and the
Sky-reaching
tall trees
Balled
with beauty, fruiting,
Good
for food and pleasant to the eyes.
I
am Adam but I have no tree
Pleasant
to the eyes
And
designed to make one wise,
The
tree of the knowledge
Of
the good and evil. Sadly
The
fruits of that tree
Shattered
the innocent beauty,
The
careless rapture and laughter and joy
The
Father-loving simplicity.
Even
to this day in my bones
Is
the shock of high climbing desire
To
be as God. I who was like him
Desired
to be as him. My foolishness
Forfeited
for me
The
bliss of that garden. Expelled,
I
was a gardener without gain
A
gardener of terrible loss.
Even
now the fragrance steals at times
Like
a legion of roses liberated
By
the flushing wind of the Eden's love
To
tell me afresh of my created joys,
My
sheer delight in living,
My
no pondering with fear
That
I was not beloved.
Beloved
I was. Today I kneel
In
the ancient earth, tamed anew
By
the love that still bewilders me
From
a leafless tree, a dried timber Cross,
The
tree of life that fruits itself
In
wounded hearts that heal
From
Calvary's balm. Dear blood!
Dear
Christ, dear Holy Father
Dear,
dear beloved Spirit. Dear Three
All
busy about that Tree
My
knees that sink into this earth
Begin
my worship moment.
Moment
expands as the fragrance
Of
roses whose life began
In
far off Eden. Man in his love of them
Has
conjured up new colours,
New
varieties from the old
And
their fragrance invests my mind
With
rich nostalgia.
My
nostrils drink of beauty
Once
at its zenith in the old garden.
I
am my father Adam and my wife's the Eve
And
we both labour gladly
In
our small and crowded garden.
We
drink the sweet smells of those bygone days,
And
memories revive the dream
Of
the new Eden, the coming delight
Of
new Adam and new Eve
Of
the river of pleasures, the trees
Always
laden with delectation,
Its
leaves the ever-reminder
Of
the whole and holy healing
From
past pride of being, as though
We
were as God-this woman wife and I-
In
the foolishness of imagined deity.
All
this comes to me as I kneel-
The
innate gardener,
The
true worshipper
In
the sanctuary of a walled garden,
The
eventual Eden glimpsed
In
the comparative present,
The
dear anticipation
Of
the garden of love to be.
Geoffrey
Bingham, Kingswood, 8/3/97
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