Called ‘Mystery’, that only omniscience could drain completely -
Where drinking is a perennial coming to birth
And dipping for nuggets an insatiable pastime.
The preserving of mystery is the badge of honour
Of all who seek her truths, for dogma begins where mystery ends
And only bigots, fools or slaves reach final certainty.
But crammers and plodders, who dare not be seen out of bounds,
Who wanted to be told, as children, to link their thoughts
To the solid and homely things, the tried and tested, the well-paid things,
Would not be reminded of the limits set by truth to human knowledge -
While companies which pick the workers’ brains for publications,
Not recognizing or valuing the mysterious dimension in their research,
Being irrelevant to profits, sell truth for a mess of potage.
Veracity does not preclude the acceptance of mystery -
It insists on it, as a safeguard against closed minds.
There is a knowing that can be a prop for self-importance,
And there is a not-knowing that can yield the deepest knowledge.
2. Is it possible that I may never know if S. auriculatum is growing here?
Yes, if the bog claims me for some macabre future exhibit:
‘Botanist (?), with notebook and lens, in good condition, c.1996’ -
Or if my mind is only open to the mystery of the cosmos.
But, armed with a field guide and lens (to sharpen
My understanding and perceptions), I have a bold assignment:
My sphagno-mission - to confirm the suspicion of auricular status.
Now, while accurate identification comes more from the mastery
Of the skills than from the hunt for mosses as such,
The accuracy of on’s convictions about life,
Its value and meaning, relies on the pursuit of truth,
For which there are no established rules