God, the pointillist,
having let there be light, stippled
diffuse sunbeams, yellow-blue
crept across purple cornfields
on comic tiptoe,
and gave the hard crack of a laugh.
Drew back the dark-hued, flecked black
sheets of night from the bed
of a snoring, slumbered Nature
and chuckled with bawdy glee.
He stumbled between the trees
and rustling hedgerows.
Ran His fingers through smudges of jellied leaves
and flash-stroked blades of quilled grass.
Snuggled into the back of voluptuous hillsides
in artist’s smock and beard, indulging the fun in Him.
Coaxed the first moans of song from the morning birds.
Smeared Creation on His hands
and whistled for the hell of it a made-up tune.
And as He lay and labouringly rose,
mixing recognisance with the drunken landscape,
of the forgotten night before-
He made Himself to shine
in full eye-averting glory,
sparkling the waters
and smiling on His works’ warm countenance.
And saw that it was good.
And on the seventh day rested, for the pubs were shut.