Dancing Dust |
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Poems by Mollie Caird (1922-2000) |
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Evolution |
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Biologists say Darwin did not get it right, Or only approximately so. Mechanism is out, and the fitness of survivors, The stately, crinolined, slow Progress of a calm Victorian steam age Wherein species rise and pass, Clicking like shiny well-oiled automata Behind museum glass. It is more, say the cladists, like a suite or a symphony, A developing work of art: The dinosaurs a grandly expansive cello line, The blastoids a brief horn part. Was Australopithecus a minuet and trio Or a rich unfolding theme; And Homo Sapiens ―cadence, coda, fourth movement, Or might he seem A misunderstood late work still emerging From the composer’s mind? The composer . . . . . . The conductor . . . . . . The orchestra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Better lock the stage door before the holy trinity Comes sneaking up from behind. Undated The Dancing Dust and other poems, 1983 |