"Out of the crooked timber of humanity,
No straight thing was ever made"
But more than crooked,
As we grow towards the light
We are pollard
By experience, coppiced, pruned,
So an irregularity
Mottles us right through with burls,
And colours us in patches of a deeper shade,
So were we sliced or sawn,
Plain, rift, quartered,
Or used as fine veneers,
Civilisation thin,
And polished, beeswax bright,
You'd see the unique beauty of our whirls,
Chatoyant gold, our swirls
Of individuality,
Marked from the day we were born,
By choices and restrictions,
And growing yet more dappled every day
And would not seek for artificial clarity,
Would see there was nothing to gain
In reducing our beliefs and our ideas
To measurable units, would not weigh
Our contradictions,
Nor work against the grain.
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