Green men grin and gurn
from blackened beams
that creak and groan
as ancient houses dream
and are swayed by
wind in branches
long since snapped.
Foliate faces flower and the
memory of an antique hour
unwinds beneath
a carpenter's craft;
masons, too, saw their shape
sleeping in the stone.
So all is forest then,
vegetable, mineral, flesh, bone.
The world tree becomes
the column of my spine;
eyelids leaves of oak;
fingers ash and pine.
I am lost within a wood
that is lost within me.
Green men grin and gurn,
for no one knows more than they
what is and is not tree.
About the Author: Bill Lewis is a writer, artist, teacher, and performance artists from Kent, England.
Copyright © 1996 by Bill Lewis. The poem first appeared in The Wine of Connecting, published by Lazerwolf Press. It may not be reproduced in any form without the author’s express written permission.