Come Holy Ghost, be an ax in my hand

Break the ice, snap it asunder with

Report like thunder, gunfire in No Man’s land

A hundred years ago between the trenches

Eating tear channels down Europe’s old face;

Worm tunnels bored under skins of dying

Forests chewed by beetles into dust dry

Orange pine needles strewn beneath grey branches.

Awaiting a single spark, careless cigarette tossed

By a road, and ignite a mountain to

Fire entire range into one ruby spire

So high the pinions of seraphim smoke.

“Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord,” they roar,

‘Tween sky pillars; blue angels, six-winged, soar.