The cool fog roses dawn,
lifts from roots that clutch the ancient race,
where water once sped the ponderous wheel.

The fog by stronger light cut from green below cliffs
where vaults a spider who knows only -
that yesterday's webs do not further.

Where gone to what purpose --
the wood that was to heavy metal fitted to stone?
Grain grown, made bread?

Gone like a misty marvel laid down
upon the slow pool, like the last ox.

© Carlton Godbold 1987

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