Two or three months back br my little finger caught in a closing hinge; br could have been worse… br br since then, the nail’s been br every shade of blackish-brown, br living some ancient, primitive life, of battered claw, br or shellfish, bruised by rock and ocean, br yet preserving, in its shell br such tender life br as heroes live to save.. br br every day, I watch this primeval drama br as, secretly, beneath the horny shell br so measured in its protectiveness, br dying slowly like a hero who enfolds br a baby life within his arms, br br secretly beneath, there grows a new pink life; br its promise makes me look afresh br at its neighbour nails; and marvel br at the delicacy of their shade br from crescent moon to nail so practical.. br what lacquer could ever hope to match br this living beauty? br br and I fall silent, still; humbled at this scene br that brings the universe’s law and love br here to my finger-end. No name of god, br or evolution, or Intelligent Design, br may encompass my humility; br I who know not my own finger-end; br humility so still, it’s even beyond prayer. br If praise can be one, without form - br then this is praise.