Into the Valley

Bit of basalt in one hand,
Other fist, chunk of ochre.
Who else is in the shelter
But the artist concluding
Something never seen before,
The first image of this god,
This therianthrope, this breach

Of what nature can manage?
You don’t know what’s going on,
But you’re creating the past
That can only keep growing.
The birth is of division
Between representation
And transubstantiation.

Outside the mouth of the cave,
On a chilly, wet fall day,
One lean, limber child in furs
Looks down into the valley
Alert for any danger.
In all probability, this child
Loves to hear and tell stories.

In the stories, this dream shape
Made from ochre and torchlight
Comes to terrifying life
To inhabit the valley,
So that the past can begin
To be the past of worship,
The growing monster

Asserting, in the future
This past will be god, and gods
Will inhabit the future
In such a way you can’t win
Against your divided dreams—
In which you can create worlds
That transform lives into words.