The Ancient Artist

One waking day of winter time
frost covered my faded book's skins
pages filled with the tracks of poems
perfect steps cracking under my eyes
extinct black and white animal scripts
painted on the walls of the minded cave.

Then morning beasts were bellowing outside
the stink of bloody sacrifice excited the fire,
we picked up the brush, we blew the colours
we made the signs, we chanted their names
one waking day of winter time we were made.


John G.Hall(C)2004