Perhaps the trees obscure the morning light?
Or blackened wings of swarming birds oppress?
In either case, his world has gone from sight.
Dank mud enfolds his feet, a cold caress.
No trampled sticks betray the trodden course
And moss-less bark his calloused fingers press.
Invisible branches smack his face perforce
And stumb’ling back, he falls upon the mire.
Gathering strength, he strains to find recourse
And lifts his weakened arms in faint desire
To wipe the sweat from blind and probing eyes--
Alas! Dense wool had cloaked his face entire!
Angrily cursing this dragonnade surprise,
He ripped the cloth with Herculean might
And primed himself to see the fair sun rise--
But to his horror, all there was, was night.
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