A book of learned scholarship, br open in my hands, at the first page… br br and then I saw, to the right of it, br my thumb nail…and marvelled – br br at its perfection, at its beauty, br and at my own ignorance – br br which strangely, was all part br of that same beauteous perfection… br br the thumbnail: curved, as a hollowed claw, br the curve I knew would give it added strength; br br sitting as secure as any child of love, br within the folded mystery of skin and flesh; br br three-coloured: pale rising moon br emerging from its secret nail-bed br as some goddess might appear; br br then the subtle shades of rosy pink, br hinting at blood serving readily br the nail’s demands; br br finally, the top (long, shaped, as best to gouge br potato’s eyes, and other kitchen tasks…) : br br I looked at it, and marvelled: br the whole creation, conspiring to present br this perfect thing… br br Fifty years and more ago, I wrote, br in those years when I despaired br of making sense of so-called ‘adult’ world, br br sitting at the desk, to find myself br before setting off to earn my daily bread, br br I wrote – in lines that never quite linked up br their visioned moments into complete poems, br br on white and yearning pages like a life unwrit: br ‘we know not our own finger ends…’ br br The wrinkled thumb and finger – they have lasted; br the holy mystery - praise God - remains.