Crooked Timber

Scots pine

for a mythical

dreadnought-building

past.

Ash floats,

but only in water

when there’s

no factory left

to burn.

Elder poets

slather bucolics

in sentimental

invention.

The spruce

make money

out of magic

futures and

unstalled

markets.

Rowan

rescues Thor

from the stream.

We are but

wooden

myths;

                                                        truths bent

                                           for eternity -

                                              as nothing straight

                                                            was ever

                                            from crooked

                                                      timber made.

       Footnote: It's Kant, not cant.