William Blake, It Was Really Nothing

William Blake reflected on the possibility

of seeing the universe in a grain of sand;

but did he ever cogitate, I wonder,

on the possibility of seeing the futility of existence

in a grain of rice?

Just now, having just finished a lentil Madras,

I took my plate to the sink.

Would I be bothered to clean it, there and then,

or would I channel my inner student

and leave it to form the first level

of yet another soon-to-be established

kitchen sink pile-up?

It turned out that I would be bothered,

and as I swiped in the direction of cleanliness,

I saw a single grain of rice

swept off the plate and down the plug hole.

And, despite myself, I couldn’t help

but feel sorry for this single grain

as it disappeared.

‘The finest of all rices from

the foothills of the Himalayas’

the half-kilo packet informed me.

Oh, grain of rice, I reflected/cogitated,

what a journey you have made:

cultivated; harvested; shipped thousands of miles

to the UK, where you were packaged;

transported to a shop; bought;

driven a few hundred metres;

tipped into a pan of boiling water;

and, after twelve minutes, cooked.

You made it far as my plate,

the grain-sized fraction of a whole meal;

a meal which was almost completely eaten,

except for you.

Instead, you were taken to a sink,

and swept towards a drain

in a cascade of water,

your one consolation:

to be immortalised in verse.

If you can see the futility of existence

in a grain of rice…

Yes, William, I can.