What is true
to you?
And, must it therefore also be
what’s true for you, is true for me?

Is truth, by nature, fixed, immutable?
A length of string that’s not commutable?

Is truth made?
Or just uncovered –
like stars by clouds in skies above us?

Innate? Perceived?

Can truth die? And once it’s dead, will it be grieved?
Is truth a living, changing thing, a tree adorned anew in spring?

Is truth clinical
cold
exact
empirical
lineal
devoid of tact?

Or is there deeper truth revealing
branches clothed in leaves of feeling?

Will you know truth once truth is found – astounded by its shining rightness?
A coin of gold rolled away, lost in grass;
a diamond hid in polished glass;
a single needle in mounds of hay?

Or is it, more, in shades of grey –
a different truth that’s true for each?
Your favourite pebble on Brighton beach.

And must we, then, fight
for who is right,
and who is dead?

Is there room for two truths in one human head?