The eyeless labourer in the night
the selfless, shapeless seed I hold
builds for it's resurrection day -
silent and swift and deep from sight
foresees the unimagined flight.
This is no child with a child's face
this has no name to name it by:
yet you and I have known it well.
This is our hunter and our chase,
the third who lay in our embrace.
This is the strength that your arm knows
the arc of flesh that is my breast,
the precise crystals of our eyes.
This is the blood's wild tree that grows
the intricate and folded rose.
This is the maker and the made
this is the question and the reply
the blind head butting at the dark,
the blazeof light alng the blade.
Oh hold me for I am afraid.
- Judith Wright