Stanza 4 Poem by Tom Billsborough

And the fugue of Time installs
Its interlocking melodies.
Beyond belief, the true creation.
Nebulae blossom and stars
Scatter like leaves blown
Before the wind yet seek
No general purpose for their being.
So why should we whose senses
Flourish in the actual believe
In some eternal soul?
The swallow swims through air
Its clock and compass set
With immaculate precision
Alighting on its summer station.