When the sun is a crimson ball
Being dragged slowly down,
Squashed and dullened,
In a ritual whose birth no man witnessed
And whose death will be our death;

When the waves crash over rocks
Smoothed by wind, by rain, by time:
Their motion, their motives as fathomless
And strange as life itself;

When a gentle mist envelops the corn field,
Shrouding the swaying stalks in a miracle
Of softness & peace,
Daring God or me or anything to disturb the air:
To end the magic that is playing there.

When you have seen, & felt,
And known these things;
When you have created beauty
And sent it forth from you
In a surge of love and power
And had it returned to you
In a million simple ways;

When you can recognise the good in life,
And in people;
And when you can laugh and run,
and play
         and hold
              and feel
                     and give
                             and love,
without question,

Then Joy is Yours.