S I X T E E N

Said merchant sat
That moment at
His private writing stall,

With pen in hand,
And giant plans,
Concluding protocols.

He’d offered them
Their old kingdom,
For them to draw rewards,

But his sickle
Was thicker still,
And meant to reap much more.

And forest kind
Were running blind
From each and every hole,

As tradesmen chased,
And dreamers raced
To save a father’s soul.

Whilst all he had
To do was pad
The walls of one more day,

Awaiting for
His messenger
To speed things on their way.

When giants should
Befall the wood,
And greet men at its brim,

And shatter hard,
And scatter far
And wide upon the wind.

He’d seen the greed
Of those beneath
The branches and the briers,

And listlessness
Of giant chests
Which at his stalls expired.

And realized
That both these sides
Were equally alike,

In searching for
A worthy cause
To satisfy their psyches.

So him being here,
For all these years,
With steady trade to mull,

Decided to
Appoint values
To those invaluable.

And once begun
The faithful sun
Will no more flora kiss,

Because those leaves
Will have no need
Of photosynthesis.

As fallen long
Before the strong,
And timbered for their fuel,

They’ll stoke the fires
Of hate’s desire,
And want’s constant accrual.

And carbonize
For centuries,
Deep rooted in the dirt,

‘Til life’s patrol
Once more extols
The chemically inert.

And scorned by such
Redundant touch,
Old sol will swivel free,

And fast resign
Its spatial sign
To his astrology;

Which shall present
To elements,
Both in and out of seed,

A stable reign
Over such planes
As neither could believe.

And he will lord
As long before
Illumination came,

And quilted groups
And wilted troupes
Will celebrate his name.

And in control
Of molecules,
More heady than most mead,

He’ll furnish them
With burnished gems,
To buy and sell and feed.

And beeswax light,
And anthracite,
Will ward their vanity,

And keep them free
Of colour’s need,
And its insanity.