(Russell J Turner)
White raven catch a pretty eagle eye ‒
a nod, a wink ‒ adornment to his scheme
to liberate her father’s hidden dreams
of fire, water, baubles of the sky.
Above the trackless territory he flies,
to hang them high, to make this island gleam
by starlight ‒ as the overflowing streams
all whisper to the worlds that hurry by.
Then fires flame and embers fall to hide
beneath the rocks, to make the mountains crack
with industry, with arrogance and pride ‒
with hearth light that still draws the traveller back.
The trickster shapes creation as a guide,
the cinders turn his finery to black.