Metaphor’s the soul of poetry: br this incongruous instrument of speech br with which we say one thing, br when we mean quite another: br br I wish that Shakespeare, its greatest English user, br had coined a truly English word for it – br or perhaps, those blunt and foursquare Anglo-Saxons br who came before; their words as hand-hewn as are spades – br br the word comes from the Greek, and means a transference; br ‘My lord, your transference is apt and shrewd…’ br no, even that’s but transferred to a Latin stem, br ‘carrying across’. Too late to seek some native word – br a ‘thoughtshift’ or a ‘mindmatch’ then? br br We wear it down, and make it less br by thoughtless grabbing at the candy-jars br upon the shelves of sweetshops of our speech, br as if to mimic poetry that we haven't earned.. br br but at its height, a metaphor shines like new light; br bringing together, two images so disparate br and making of their neighbouring, a moment magical in memory br as if we’d never seen the world so brilliant br or so revealing; moments when the mind’s a god, br and life itself a metaphor; a glimpse br that somewhere, two things mentioned meet br under the astonished, single gaze of eternity itself.. br br Metaphor’s a holy sacrament: one should never dare br to use it without some faint echo, of a moment clear recalled br when that which one refers to, came dazzling bright into the mind br as life transfigured to another world, br time lifted to the timeless; br the radiance of the world’s first day, br Creation, in itself, one glorious godly metaphor.. br and nothing ever less than one.