what is the axe
with its edge
but another means
to conquer
slice by slice
the wood-round preserved
diminuendo
the axe
is unmoved
even as the chips
encircle
and surround us
ready again
if required
to deliver a blow
and in the darkness
of the garden shed
the rhythm of sleeping
is the percussive memory
of thud
upon thud
upon
time between strikes
is a no-time
no change
no awareness
but waiting
time before a new strike
is a no-time
of new-time
then
and then
a blow
my axe
is a portent
a driven cut
in the making
no mood
no mind
no time
but
a blow
© Frank Prem, 2017
August 2017 Poem #05: street echo
Frank Prem Poetry 