hammer
where my hammer lies among the long vernal
thin layers of corruption peeled like an iron skin
sniffed aback by foxes but now accept as dead and useless
which once my hands in skill beat infernal rhythm
where the moment of the handles arc has shone
wither to the skies
where the criterion of art has gone
weathered to the four winds
my dreaming lies among the long vernal
like adieu it whispers in their fibres and their green swept chords
sensed by foxes and by friends but now agreed as useless
which once the fires of yearning bent upon the dull anvils of ones calling
when the moment and ingenuity took sparks
captivating in their falling arcs
now lie as dull grey dots somewhere in the mulch of what has been
where life's evolution changed
they wait upon the seasons