When the white men came
Left their priest here with his tales of Jesus and original sin
we of course recognised the Garden of Eden
For is not the place we live in the very same
If we want to talk to God we go to the waterfall
We know our God is everywhere
In plants, and beasts, and soil – the rain that feeds the river
But it is here that we do truly hear her call
God waters the grass we bend to make our huts
Where even now the priest leads evening prayers
But I prefer our God’s song –I do not care
For wearing clothes, or to hear his stories -of which he has lots
Just like the snake, the priest would give us knowledge
Of our nakedness, our nature as sinners
But I know we still live in the garden, where we can pluck dinner
From the very trees, or, grateful, take in the life of brother deer
So whilst my kin listen to the priest’s lies
I slip away to the never-ceasing waterfall
Whose plashy tones are our God’s call
Endlessly flowing ‘neath Her created skies…
© Andrew Wilson, 2026
Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Melissa Lemay in Poetics, invites us to respond to the paintings of Henri Rousseau. Melissa was in part, inspired by a poetic exchange between myself and Merril about Rousseau on her site Collaborature which you can read here.