Time slows like ancient windows flowing,
reflections warp, horizons bend their bounds
and history is waiting to get going.
The trembling ash sing all the root-found
songs of hope they know; sound a warning
in shades of myth, the mauve around a wound.
Towers that fell have risen again this morning
vine-wound, cloud-capped, tall ships marooned.
Ravens hang forever turning overhead,
their blessed eggs lie cool in distant nests;
they dream of naked chicks with noisy gapes
to stuff with dug-up grubs until they fledge.
The screen awakes, the scene is set.
You cast the spell, the world remakes.