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     The Glamor   

     


by Gail White

 
                                
                        

 
 



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Set down in prose, the Ancient Mariner
would have a moral: Please don't shoot the birds!
We would grasp every stone that undergirds
the narrative, and doubts would not occur
as to the writer's meaning. Magic words
raised demons once, but now they make no stir;
we've cut the supernatural down two-thirds.
Dorothy's in Kansas — that's all right with her.
But when the ice, mast-high, comes floating by
as green as emerald — or the sun's rim dips,
the stars rush out, at one stride comes the dark
we touch the borders of a frosty park
where there's no sacrament nor sorcery
that was not first a sound on human lips.

  
Eden Song by Kim Bridgford
 

   

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