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Tuesday, 8 January 2013

The Trident


In the frozen ice capped
Mountains high above Valgur
The three ice cold tips
Of the mighty spear are formed
Glistening brightly on the
Shoulders of the hillside
With each rising sun
They are warmed

On separate crests they weave
Seamlessly binding as one
With the tines of the spear
The infant forks of Poseidon
Winding on their stem unnoticed
Unheralded in their existence
Save for beasts that they nourish
Whose lives they forever brighten

Where the forks meet they converge
And their strength becomes pooled
Harnessed power in triplicate moving
As one channelled in motion
Villagers bow in their presence
Vowing fealty to all that they bring
As their tines are pitched in the meadow
They proffer undying devotion

Bound as they are to the staff
Tines power transferred to the hilt
Where it drives forward with every stride
Giving nurture to all that it meets
Harnessing nature’s resources
Poseidon’s symbol of life weaves its way
Crashing into the lap of it’s god
The Trident its father it greets

© Fergus Martin
2012