The Wood Cutter Poem by Mark Heathcote

In the blackest dungeon forest, in the deepest dark
there in; lies a post-hold position, in yours and gods heart
where in; he builds a lowly woodcutter habitation,
each log therein; a year, each door or window a decade
of unerring ecology: It's here the beast is given a deputation,
it's here all the beast's nefarious gather to be stockade.

With boring gimlet, burning eyes do they all impeach?
And rebuff, in gainsay, deputize a heathen to preach
but god-like the numeral midge whispers in the interim to each;

His words like resin rise and elucidate both heart and mind
and yet, again it is he elected the woodcutter of humankind.