‘sooth to the apple long in waiting
loaded dice in the garden walled
hoping for want of alter-
-natives come to the mount
hailing the greatest of all
two in the step of an altar
leaves spread crimson on graven gold
sky speaking curses to the one in many
lives lived ceaseless, manifold
then in sunlight one asking maybe
a wrong word written read and heard
in the dimness of a night’s torment
many things have been spoken
but few, so few, foretold.
© 2015 threegoodwords