Laurence Davies


Go to the tree half-leaf, half-fire,
          eastward flame and westward green;
Go to the rock half-sponge, half-steel,
          upward soft and downward bright;
Go to the lake half-ice, half-steam,
          southward chilling, northward scalding;
Go to the sulfur-bearded spring,
          dead without, alive within,
          blue below and yellow over.

          dark, dark, deep cat-blue of night
          soft, soft, sweet bird-grey of dawn
          sharp, sharp, ripe dog-red of day

Lovers and haters leave your godly dreams—
the snake-struck chill, the faithful spring, lilies,
and the flight through brazen canyonlands—
step down, step early on day's splintered floor.


Here's a section from The Language of Hours: eight poems, eight word-games, eight pseudo-scriptures all about putting Babel together again. Credits for this one go to The Mabinogion and the Superstition Mountains.