Monday, November 9, 2015

Piper at the Gates of Gone

One more flash-flood mark on the tangled bank,
Mud and grasses hanging from bent branches
And the odd archaeological scrap
Deposited, another faerie flag

Of intricately tattered human hopes,
The page of a paperback book, a skein
Of toilet paper, a bit of plastic
Clothing manufactured so far from here

The oceans could not conceive of a world
Dry enough for destruction by a  flood.
What water lifted and carried down, wind
Will rearrange more gradually. All gone

Except for shepherds' carvings in the bark's
Torn strips, qui cum sapientia cadit.

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