… by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture. [John: 10,9]
Let there be no misunderstanding here:
I am no poet.
There are a number of good reasons for that:
- I lack the talent;
- I lack the patience;
- Over fifty years ago, the editors of TCD’s undergraduate literary magazine, Icarus, made my inadequacies abundantly clear.
Lunchtime, Saturday, my autistic grandson had been in the house. Once inside, I noticed him fingering the panels inside the front door, touching each one, in turn, all sixteen.
As he ate his pizza, and drank his soda, he was drawing. It was a remarkably accurate diagram of those sixteen panels, including the shape of the top pairs.
In that moment I found the solace of a pasture, if not a poem.