The Ridge

A line of dusky trunks rise from the west
And also from the east: a palisade,
Or the pillars, built on royal foundation,
Whose stony-strength might once, in times forgotten,
Have borne the weight of a mighty hall:
A hall whose skyward rafters would have torn
The watching clouds which still persist above,
Whose glorious walls and buttressed arches now
Have been retaken by the hungry, hungry
Earth, quite long ago.

On either side, a mottled valley rolls
Downward, treacherous with layered leaves.
We stand between them, on the forest's spine,
This great and northward swell of land
Which no one here can reach. We rule this place,
Our secret fortress, our steadfast resort.
Atop our thrones of precious wood, sculpted
From the tower's fallen form: A great Oak
Long since deceased, we survey and note
That all is good, and everything is as it should.

We are not lonely here, for those of us
Who visit are the finest companions
Trusted much and trusting back in kind.
This place's earth and air have heard so much,
So many tales and quiet mumblings
Said in confidence. But words are safer
Here than home, or on the streets whose rumble
Glowers in the distance, and remind us
Of their grinding, smokey, sour manners
Which here, at least, never will intrude.