"All that mankind has done, thought, gained or been: it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books."
-Thomas Carlyle

by Daniel Morgan

What rains could not quite wash away,
Half-sunken lie in memory.
Now 'neath the storm-pierced sky I wade
Towards the arms of ashen trees.

I feared the flood would have me still,
But nearing a mast in tromenies*,
The world depressed around a hill,
The hill around an old-growth tree.

Truncated others tried to flee.
Since woods were short to reach so high,
A fiery cloud's wind fell free
And sharp! the trees had speared the sky!

Poured down the wounds unto the eaves,
A curtain fell and parted ways.
And as the halves were on me cleaved,
It stained a clear and crimson rain.

The blood-letting descended back.
Still clutching that hale evergreen,
A dove lit softly on my neck,
And God hoist down to walk on me.

tromenies: progression around a hill.