Words Not Spells Poem by Paul Brookes

Hopes a tidal lake, a soft anchorage, the enclosure within the fjord's walls hemmed and hawed, a wizards place it seems.
where trees bent windward twist and gnarl,
by natures sculpting hand, to keep a precarious grip on life
what harm can words do I think as cliffs rise granite tight

the sky a thin blue ribband between the hospitals battlements.
for Illness etches memories and pious lines to the deity
through the rough sea of cancer, or gasping pneumonia.
to see beyond the closet walls, small trees seeming lifeless
and bleak but yetflushed red with Springs ichor to rise
and furnish buds with sustenance to begin the cycle of new life amongst so much death, soon to unfurl into verdant green with pastoral beauty
thougha city court andspreading, I think, hope.

what witchcraft-in-writing ripping tears evokingtears
an avatar's dream.
can such things cause disasters?
be careful what you write he says as if writing was such an easy task
for though they are words, they are not spells to reek vengeance or blessings upon the unsuspecting
not endless pains nor a dreadful lucidity of the speaker's inner intent.

so either prove me wrong with assertions where nosuperiority
lies in either word or deed nor even fleeting thoughts
which skim this fevered brain and if in everyday discourse
the Muse her song intrudes a laughing interlude in this ludicrous world,
then it is her work that slides unsteady from my unworthy pen.

you seem he said to work your magicquite casually,
but if so then was not done in spite but inspite and being unbeknown.
the humble writer here gives voice to wrong and lurid impressions,
and begs forgiveness for unintended or imagined sleights.