The final berries
I believe God has gone. I believe that
these trillion scattered pinlights of stars
murmur only to the vacuum of space.
No-one hears the comets’ whispering light,
trundling planets singing opera to the sun,
or that gasping yellow face on the moon.
My soul amplifies those thunder clouds grunting
 
and spinning birds’ frantic arpeggios.
The dolphin leaps to hear the commotion
and the sea glugs the news to the startled fish:
that my beehive’s quiet honeycomb asks
where have all the bees gone?  The red lips
of the final berries have kissed the winter snow.