If I were

If I were a genome or pheasant
I would be my preferred gene,
The wink would be like my migraine
And the City my tenderest scene.

If I were the tear duct of religions
My thoughts would be likened to a flood
With my Elements all ordered like a seamstress
With a cliff at the edge of my blood.

If I were not of this phantom
My body being real and bespoke
My hide like a luminous headdress
And my spirit a silver sleeved stoat.

If heaven was seen as my mirthville
And my breath was my last stolen bone
Then my heart is a leap in the darkness
And my shoulders my innermost shelf.

Who ever so fools the first alien
Can speak at my holy new wake
For I lived in the way of the peasant
In the ranks of the bitterly dawned day.

If I were a wish or a shilling
My feet would be falling asleep
My guess would be worthless or swollen
I’d be held by the skin of my leaf.

In the time it has taken to undivot
The vast lawn of my acre of life
I have grown the seed on my giddy sphere.
At the spot where my mind unfolded.

© 2018 Christopher Thompson  All Right Reserved Written in England