The Effigy

I would be patient 
as this heath forging 
its seam of coal below 
the flint, from ancient 
woods when young stars glowed
in skewed alignment.

They say a copper idol 
with wide eyes lies 
in the barrow, deeper 
than the fox’s den 
marked with the waxing 
moon of a lamb’s skull.

Through endless night it waits, 
faith weathering to verdigris 
as no one comes to spring it 
from its grave with a command; 
words made of fire and ore
that no one understands.

An earlier version published in The Lake 2019

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