The Story I Cannot Believe



Half-fallen the stone bridge straddles

the brook as it slinks beneath the arch

undulating across the meadow

dewed in vivid green its bubbling waters calling

to the harvest moon that hangs hands-free

in the dusky sky cushioned by peppered shades of gray


Only one story the woods still tell but I cannot believe

their words they say your presence dwells

beyond the fells without it I am grieved in body

without it I am lost on this aimless trail

within it I shall grasp the great gem of your beauty

find shelter in your embrace breathe surrender feast


Against the wind I have marched into dawn

as it showers newborn fields with golden light

it blesses the poet and his missal of hymns

now focused on clouds and sea now savoring

metaphor and sound now indulging

in heightened imagery sailing swiftly past the horizon


Only Coleridge will prove equal to this task

fortified with opium luxuriating in dreams

only he can hold his own against the cretins

vowing to upend all elements of art triggering

a morbid ballet of magical thinking prima donnas

stumble before candle lights in the dimming dark

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