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NIGHT AT THE REDWOODS



Ashok Niyogi




The gondolas are done for the day
The beer-bellied operator has gone away,
On wire ropes the box-cars gently sway
Almost kissing the tops of the tallest giants.

In the womb of the cathedral tree,
I hold chapel with the half moon at a slant,
My grotesque shadow is two dimensional,
It folds and climbs up the trunk of the dinosaur.
Knurls on isolated trunks
Are wizened Indian Chiefs
Black war paint in the folds and creases
Of their ageless faces.

Rough shaped lifeless statues and panels
Embedded for eternity in their own wood,
The logger and the carpenter
With a tankard of ale,
Crude giants dotted beside the tourist trail
Now go about their nightly chores;
The audio boxes come alive
Mixing botanical data with childrens’ lores,

And all the while the shallow roots
Intermingle and fight for food;
Mute in their struggle to grow
Taller, broader and taller still.
And the branches know
Which way the morning light will climb,
They strive for longevity,
They are not phantoms you see.

The dead trunk shriveled white,
Struck by lightning and yet upright
Sees all in the moonlight.




Scars Publications


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