The thing that’s killing me
is that which first caught my ancestor’s eye.
Until then, I was content to roam the far horizon,
to be that quivering digit in the African plain,
strolling and musing, simply taking my time
when it didn’t matter; crouching at pools,
fishing for food, picking up things which lay around.
You could say it was like a kind of Eden,
for which I didn’t care or mistrust.
But then one day – I can’t recall exactly when –
something sparked, like a piece of flint in the sun;
sharp, fetching blood and an idea.
The rest you know in its outlines;
when the shaping of some tool
turned the wise one into a fool.
*Taken from poetry collection ‘anonymous lines’