La! let in the lawn, by lamplight and moonlight,
With stake and string, workers have wefted and wound
Mini-universe in movement, marvellous mandala.
Were wheat to engrow, the ‘what?’ would well be erased.
For it is nothing, and everything: madrigal, mark and mow.
Linked lines enmeshing minotaur, making a maze
Vibrantly visible; yet in most mainly Mind.
And where, here! weaves the thread, I follow,
To the heart of the kingdom and (hopefully) back – or beyond.
Like longlife lived, this pattern has shape and shrift.
And yet, was the lost in there, now you say, not before,
When His feet formerly trod, lightly the lines led Him home?
For what else was the ‘why?’; when, wended with
Wayfaring woes, replenished with rain, outbrimming with sun,
It soon disassembles, binding and blending green growth;
Encroachment of crawlers, uncaring of corridors,
Perhaps, with pure purpose, pursuing
The crux of their special creation;
The track and tramp of its Creatrix:
Here, she says, look, this was done; and is done.
for Rachel. A labyrinth, she protests, is not a ‘maze’.