The Glory of Wood

deadwood:
chopped and carved down
roughened up,
no sign of sanding,
brought together:
larger, smaller
planks positioned
in a joust to join in joists
at right angles,
to passing angels,
be
hammered to the soil
through hardened Roman hands.

on a driftwood tree,
you died,
(two thousand times since round the sun
the epicentre circles from a growing oak still ripple)
your fallen branches,
stained and etched in blood,
you hung for me,
i live to tell the tale.





Posted for dverse: Poetics-On the Other Hand

Photo: Jim Rants