Imagist Version
I cross a wooden bridge to the grove.
Beneath the spreading branches and leaves,
A dimming.
Quiet becomes more so.
Along the path,
There is only the flitting of birds
Through flowered panglias–
Too quick to be seen, and otherwise silent.
Soon, shafts of sunlight show the center,
An aggregate of black-green spires.
I pause before entering:
As my feet, one that has fallen,
Its ruin decaying in the murk,
Impeding passage.
Once inside,
The center is almost a clearing,
A circle of boles
Blackened and hollowed by fire.
I fall on my knees looking upwards,
Looking upwards to a pinnacle
Where crowning meets the light.
As I bow my head in homage,
The border of a shadow-land surrounds me.
The canopy perpetuates a shade
To which the bestial or flightless are consigned,
As am I.
August, 2008
stevengoldenpoetry 