Genesis

In the lab a white coated cleric of the new religion
fumbles from genetic theory to genesis and looks
to see the marvel of creation. It’s all wrong,
of course, but he cannot see beyond the glass
lipped rim of the test tube. An empty beaker
beckons and another broken protozoa is washed
away. His wiry frame is folded over the old oak
bench, watching enzymes dissolve in solution
along with all hope of peace and noble prizes.

His dreams on ice, he turns from the cryo tank
and Bunsen brews fresh coffee. Outside the lab
his wife makes and breaks the dinner dates;
children exercise his dog. Under a grey sky
the college tower reflects then pirouettes in the Cam.
But he will not cast a shadow or be seen to shine,
his career remains organic, not crystallised.

He turns to the frost-free fridge and from within
withdraws a tray of genetic alphabet soup.
Pipette in hand, he stalks the cells like a scientific
heron. Dipping here and there, searching for
the secret mix of revolutionary genetics:
man-made evolution.