Breathless the Journeyman pauses

January cold rising damp from deep in the soil

through his booted feet and up

tired legs into shaking stomach and rasping lungs

The world opens as a magic trick beneath him

squares of bad land ringed with rock walls

painted by an ethereal artist’s hand

on his raw windshield eye

A motionless city is struck dumb by the wind

filling up the valley with the fungi of buildings

while above the birds auger what they will

without interpretation

The brown mountain slumps

thrust into the sea like a discarded midden

raised by ancient giants with it bulbous crown

atop a snow haired head and furrowed brow

Hand over hand each stone of Kinghood

weathering the storms of four millennia

and the soles of countless souls

beating on the drum of the earth in long rhythms

Not dead but asleep beneath the pile

they have no ears for the rhyme

yet shell-like they hear each and every whisper

as shattering soliloquies of sound

Closed mouth and chilled bone

the Journeyman rings the crown

a vigil paid with all Gods, One and None

he lightly climbs down to the world again

From Dawn at Midnight

Available in Print and E-book



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