FIRSTBORN

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