Reminiscing with Francis*
Dear Frank, He isn't a bloodhound
Pursuing the spoor of his prey,
Yelping at the scent He has found,
To end with the quarry at bay.
Never are we lost to His eye,
No instant that He does not see,
Before the choice we give a try,
Destinations where we will be.
How can He be lost to our sight,
Anytime, wherever we go?
How deep is the dark of that night
If, where He is, we do not know!
He must smile at such confusion;
Blinded, our hands cover our eyes,
The mind's given a contusion
While missing the path to its prize.
Mothers give their children free rein
When in safety they can be taught
That freedom evokes its own pain,
In which coin life's purchase is bought.
Trailing her tot at a distance,
All the trips and bruises she sees;
Painful must be her resistance
To succor the babe on her knees.
So, is it the "Hound of Heaven"
Or Mother we know to pursue
With treats freshly baked with leaven,
Teaching us what Love can not do?
--Baron Gooberacht von Hottzendog
on Francis Thompson's "The Hound of Heaven"
copyright 1998, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved