A king stands carved in stern basalt
robed in purple lupine and gold balsamroot
crowned with a victor's wreath
of iridescent tree swallows—
bearded with ice, weeping
nameless winter streams. Lichen
grows like greenish stubble
across his cheeks. The lids of his eyes
are feathered with eagle's nests.
This is a land that was striped with bolts
of fire and buried knee-deep in soot
and ash, that fought for breath
under his hand. Years followed
while the king stood sleeping.
Life came slowly back to the stricken
forests and the turbid, troubled
rivers. They say a volcano never dies,
only rests.
Collection available! Knocking from Inside
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Dormancy
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8 comments:
I love this. It reminds me of Ozymandias.
What a powerful last line. Evocative poem!
What a rich stream of words you have used to tell a great story.
It must have been a huge statue to have more than one eagle's nest!
What a rich stream of words you have used to tell a great story.
It must have been a huge statue to have more than one eagle's nest!
What a rich stream of words you have used to tell a great story.
It must have been a huge statue to have more than one eagle's nest!
vivinfrance, Not everything huge and formed from stone is man-made
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