F I V E

The giants spoke,
And laughed with folk,
Into the olive night,

Whilst father made
His son a bed
That cradled candle light.

They’d covered much,
And subjects such
As they had never shared,

Then out he’d gone
To be amongst
The gathering prepared.

He left his son
Time to dwell on
The evening’s implications,

With its parade
Of truths arrayed,
And all their revelations:

The boy’s old man
Had been coming
Out to the deep for years;

At evening fall,
At school’s recall,
At opportune all clears.

Exploring for
A myth’s reward;
A life times worth of meaning.

For one last burst
Of mystery versed
To complement the scenery.

But any wait
To compensate
The length of erstwhile debt,

Could not remove
A father’s love,
Regardless of regrets.

So to his one
And only son
He promised not to stay,

And by the rise
Of morrow’s light
They’d head home straight away.

And with these words
Administered
The boy made fast to sleep,

But once within
Its beckoning
All promise failed to keep.

For dreams again
Of burning pain,
And wastelands coruscated,

And now his bones
Were all exposed,
And flaked like bark cremated.

But more than this,
And emphasized,
Was where this soot occurred:

At first obscured,
But then assured;
His own home woodland burrs.

Where all his clan,
From man to man,
And woman, child and beast,

Burned like a stack
Of driest flax,
Until the burning ceased.

Then ashen blown
On exposed stone
Were all the forest’s clothes,

And overhead
A whittled thread
Of drifting mist composed,

That settled slight,
And clogged the light,
No longer jealous warding,

The old chartreuse
And ancient views
Of wonderment’s recording.

And like a sleet,
But warm and sweet,
And falling over brows,

The boldest sweat
About him set,
And woke him from his drowse.

He screamed, but held
The sound, and then
Shot out into the day,

Where all around
The sights and sounds
Of traders were at play.

He asked of where
His father was,
And each of them informed him:

He’d left the camp,
With giant vans,
First thing that very morning.