The Messenger

The Messenger

When the world began,
silence was everywhere,
The Gods of the sun,
the birds of the thunder
where yet to be born.
Fire was still a small bird
hidden beneath
a river of ice and snow.

In this new world
the messenger was already old,
carrying the weight
of what it knew
what it had seen,
on its ancient back.

In the distance
something moved on the horizon.
Something small and dark.
It made a creaking noise.
The messenger looked again
but whatever it was
was gone.

Later that day
he could smell smoke.

Michael Robinson artist/poet