When tallow candles lit cave walls,
Imagination flicked through film.
On language looms we weaved our words
For the mind-marrowed images
Mapped by memory’s own spindle.
From gap to gap, from ridge to ridge,
From rock to rock, from stream to stream,
We worded: for the bleach of snow,
The brash-blirt of rain, frisking gusts,
Land-lashing gales, feet blattering
Through water pools, a halo mist
Burring the moon, spawning fish nest-
rudding pebbles, a lake-like cess
Fair floshed with reeds. The uncanny.
But what’s the word for when hail-spears
Kill bees in the mouths of flowers?
Don’t tell me it is providence.
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