Foxen
White bones silvering in the earth.
Dew distorting lenses settle in eye
sockets
Like globules of melted glass
Gone are the memories of rabbit blood,
The sharp crunch of bone,
The sweet taste of marrow on the tongue.
Months within the Mother's womb,
Of warm earth, maggots, wood lice
And the gentle transforming mercury
of slugs,
Have done their work.
I am awake now,
Hearing the call of the white ghost,
the soul leader,
From the bosom of the May tree.
I follow her silent wings across the
silver grass.
I will howl at the plump bellied moon
And live again in the tricksy night
dreams of men.
(C) Copyright April 15,
2001
STARDANCER
All Rights Reserved