Early Dreams (Section 2, p27)
Evening nears. The fair-haired vicar folds up his stole.
_________________
Axes still rampage in the forest. Like cold-blooded killers.
Blades glisten, white chips flying to the side.
Suddenly a pine cries out loudly and falls into a young
woodcutter’s embrace. A sweet shiver runs down his arms,
resin perfumes his hair.
He hadn’t loved anyone yet.
The forge burns like a bride’s cheeks. Joints
obedient to iron are writhing — — —
Even the anvil is struck dumb: a black hammer
brandished, like a decree.
At dusk wine barrels roll up. Wide and mossy.
Rusted hoops break, young blacksmiths take off
their leather aprons. Their teeth, unnaturally white.
On such a night, strong arms shove aside the bolt.
Horseshoe fires flash, cherry orchards fall to their knees.
They fly past twelve bridges —
Only then does the abducted beloved maid awake.
__________________
The fair-haired vicar goes to the churchyard.
St. Agatha stands among braided branches.
Her pleated garment faded, the fire bread
long gone stale.
But the fair-haired vicar is young too.
newshoots.pub 