ID?

There are engines in all cells of my being,
Precise technologies of which I am
Hardly aware. Through their efficacy
Blood pumps, breath is taken, poems written
And vital existence manufactured.
Throughout my body surge mighty rivers,
Plunging as cataracts into gorges
Prodigiously luscious by undergrowth
Rooted in earth precious with minerals,
Deep-mined and smelted before being cast
In moulds of sand transmuted to fine glass
By the heat, by the passion, by the need,
That can’t be assuaged, for comprehension.
Such be the machines driving my nature,
Each one meticulously constructed
Through some immanent creativity
Which assembled an entire universe
From all there was in an infinite mote.
I might well be forgiven by God for
Wondering about the divine presence
Of mind that can conceive such artifice.

Dave Alton