Touch of tuning fork

HUNTER’S GLOVE

Gray world, wind washing rain across

the enormous limestone crevasse

down River Road.  Slant layers

of pre-Cambrian scrawls (wrinkles

of periwinkles, snails, seashells)

pre-date the hieroglyphs –

those Isis-&-Osiris skiffs

loaded with already-hoary piles

of Horus-eyes, gold scarab beads...

Cottonwoods like willows here –

divining rods bent to the River’s

imperturbable Runnymede.

The stream’s a mobile parallax.

One touch of tuning fork

will resonate through stark

tenebrous time-caverns – axe-

marks of Raven shadow Dove

into a treasure-trove

of hunter’s glove (apes

channel fright to constellation-love).

I would sound that iron undertone

down through the catacomb

of trench-war years – hum

Psyche-Wisdom’s will be done,

track Ariadne’s thread, from Chartres

to Notre Dame, from Magna

Carta to the Frisco Bay –

where Lady knots her safety net.

12.10.15