Crystal apple in an inky universe.
The stars, like pips, are clustered in your heart.
Your green umbilical spills over from above,
Whilst quietly your amber pulses start.
Whole galaxy, plucked from galactic tree;
Spinning above the silky Milky Way.
Within your core, a man stands silently,
Caught in infinity and stored away.
Where is that tree which bore such splendid fruit?
What gardener planted it in outer space?
And will this be, in some mysterious way,
The human species’ final resting place?
©Ruth Twyman Lockyer February 2014
For the illustration that goes with this poem, please email.