Far From His Canaan

Beyond the downward recess of the hill
And past the sunken garden and graped vines
The morning air was drunken with the wine
Of the clear river's make. And standing still
Against the water's swollen, dimpled banks
Was our fair man, who'd waded through the grime
In some persistent quest towards the sublime
Not knowing how much truth was in the dank
But having found, in spiritual sojourns
Before some sort of primal comfort nested
In the grasses and the trees suggested
Nature once more could provide what he yearned.
The river lazed and fowl grazed beyond
And all around the plants that propagated
But these motions could seldom be related
To the man that held fast; it never dawned
Upon him that he was no closer to
A true solution than if he remained
Uphill and had not ventured out, restrained
The active voice that he'd once miscontrued,
And hence had brought him far from the abode
Where he'd developed and transformed beneath
The sweltered summers' dry, constrictive sheath
And not heeded the symbols that forbode.

Too long ago, the Lord appeared aflame
And at the darkest hour he was weak
The sun long gone, the pallid moon too meek
And so susceptible as he, no blame
Can be given for when he blindly went
Far from his Canaan, and its Georgian plains
And settled by these river banks, a vain
Attempt to find meaning - A lost fragment.

Written May 27 to June 14
A fragment of an unfinished narrative poem - soon to be turned into a short story with more focus and intent.