FIRSTBORN
It was probably purest chance
When the first poem was born
The words spoken or even sung
And in the still air they hung
A rhythm like the waving corn
That almost seemed to dance
To bosoms words were clasped
Newly born, soon for weening
Consonance causing a surprise
One could see it in their eyes
Realising the greater meaning
As understanding was grasped
Written verse was widely shared
Populating the world and minds
Realising that poetry had grown
And captured on tablets of stone
Evolving newer forms and kinds
See how that firstborn has fared