Mature

“As newborn babes, desire the rational
milk without guile …”
(1 Peter 2:2)

When I was young, my brain was full
of milk, white from my mother
and the cereal bowl.
I thought creamy, healthy thoughts.

But in middle life, my poor brain would curdle,
yellow and dry out;
no longer fit for sale.

Yet now it has matured nicely,
thank you very much, and become
a brain for a connoisseur
or epicure. (Though perhaps
this cheese now belongs
in tinfoil.)

Yes, holes appeared, and reticulations;
but they became colourful veins,
to be mined for memories;
my brain shot through, redolent
with piquant ramifications,
like marbling in an old book.

Once bland white processed thoughts
now have unexpected nuances.
The ideas are neither good
nor bad, but have lingering
floral notes,
or tones of fruit or nuts,
or a complex aftertaste
of earth or yeast.
They stay on the palate.

If you worry that your brain
might turn to mush, always
begin with the milk of human
kindness, and let the spores
of ideas, the dear mouldy old
memories, the veins
of thought, work in your mental
mixture.

The maturest thoughts have complex texture.
Unexpected grace notes appear;
and God plants a new starter culture
every year.

by Julian O’Dea

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