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
to Paradise
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.