The Wooden King - Poem by Simon Gwynn
Through the halls of the wooden king the owl drifts,
drops a hooting eye clutching at his dusty raiment.
Rips it away and in the basement
the baby wakes and rises up
with a covenant of good news.
Beyond the wooden rampart the man walks,
bathes in a still pool, crouches in the grass,
moves his fingers upon his face with a small smile.
Discovers a mouth beginning to move,
annexes his tree and
raises his totem pole.
In broken tongues our words with the earth are mingled.
Passing through to Paradise I see
dropp through the air with a cry
of gladness, bewilderment,
the new king. Birds
determine the edge of the world.
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