The House that Jack Built Poem by Jacob Polley

the first trees were felled
and sailed in, wrecked, then slept
an age in the northern sun, blackening
to iron were found by horsemen
leading their horses and raised as
cloud's axles, rafters of night, a god's gates
were passed through, seen
from miles off, rolled the sun
and moon along their lintels, rooted,
put out leaves for a second time
creaked, tasted the rain, held
the wind to their hearts while
the horsemen streamed like
their horses' manes
into the dark, their fires
black smudge in the subsoil, their bridles
of gold underground

lived long, grew great
were a second time
felled, dressed were sharpened to stakes
and raised as a fort
by farmers who'd followed their ploughs
to the treeline for fuel
to bake the pots
their ashes were buried in
with a scattering of grain
like stars each small clay
heaven still hangs in the earth

were overgrown,
steered clear of
called dragon's ribs
devil's cot were nested among, rotted
down beside
harbored foxglove, eggshell
owl pellet, primrose, honeycomb

were glazed, split
put out buds of malachite, blossoms
of salt, grew again, put out
small translucent fruits named
by the women who prized them
teardrops, ice apples, clarities
were offered bread,
dolls of woven grass, plaits of hair, coins
with the obverse ground smooth, beads
of  turquoise

twisted, straightened, filled
with rooks, held again
the wind to their hearts, creaked, scraped
off the sunlight's scales with their leaves, were
a grove, grew
manes of lichen, were murmured
under, gave counsel on still nights
of open doorways the dead came through
on horseback or shouldering flails or bearing chimes
of ice apples gave shelter
were felled for it, their roots
ripped up by a legion's engineers
and left like brainstems
rucked on the earth

were timber but the pit saws
snarled in their rings of iron
broke teeth on the flints
that welted their sapwood
were good
for nothing, stacked, fired, marched
away from, sucked up the flames,
hissed, smoked, glowed blood-
black, were tempered, twice-
forged bided
on site as battle-stain,
in story as Head Wood

lay half-buried, grown over, still hot
were stumbled upon
by navigators, hit
with hammers and rang
until they were made lock gates
to slam
shut on the slow wet
grew green, slime-
faced, knew runoff, weird particulates,
held fast against drizzle's
tonnage, the nudge
and bonk of a bloater were left
stinking when the water died

stood strange in currents
of deep grass, open wide
flexed, hungered once more
for the light, bulged, branched, rived
out of their lacquer, unfurled
leaves of oilskin, shook down clots
of blossom lived
long, grew great
weren't felled but walled in, roofed
over, giving span
to a farmhouse, hanging
a hall from their outstretch, bracing floor
after floor on their inosculating
joists, which sang
to a barefoot tread and were called
home of shadows heart of the wind
Lamanby