Excerpt
I Run With the Fox
Better to be proud and huntedThan to ride with the Pink Coats.
Better than the smell of warm blood after a quick kill, Bitter and bright the scent of hidden fern.
Though the heart fail in the panting sideAnd the eye be clouded with strainingafter the deep copseStill is there thrill in flight —Soft are oak leaves under the swift feet.
Sweet are the distant notes of the hunter's hornAnd the hounds' baying,Sweet to the trembling ears of the hiddenand hunted.
I run with the fox!
Memory Sharp
It has come to this… my darling…With the years gone over,With the truth acknowledgedYou are not coming back.
It is entering a roomWhere the curtains are drawn,Where dust lies heavyOn the table top.Sudden — your name — scrawled in the gloom —And the mouth gone dry,And the heart stopped!
Gift Shop Window
Apple Annie, ancient and weather-beatenHer amazing garments huddled about her,Bent almost double to peer in the window —She stood on the one foot… and then on the otherAnd nodded her head like a great dark crow.Her old lips moved in some mumbo-jumboBut what she said was her own dark secret.
The wine-glasses winked in their pewter holders,A bewildering array of costume jewelleryOf filigreed ivory and cornflower crystalWas spread like the spoils of a pirate frigateFor Apple Annie's remote appraisal.Some place, far back in the mind's recessThe hunger for Beauty stirred in sleep.
A little smile, like a secret fragmentOf dimly-remembered and lost delightMoved, like the stir of a small frail fanOn a face that was wrinkled and dim with age.With a hesitant gesture, desire engendered,Her old hands fluttered against the paneTwisted and gnarled… and pitifully empty…Fluttered … and moved … and were still again!
Sire
My mother was a ladyWith hair like silkAnd eyes like gentiansAnd a skin like milk.
But my father loved laughterAnd the flowing bowl —And his eyes were dark mischief —"Rest his soul!"
My mother often stopped meFrom having funWith the echo of her proper"It isn't done!"
But I'd feel my father's handAs he'd rough my hairSaying "black… and rebellious.We're a bold, bad pair!"'
And now I'm woman grownWith a son - ah me!Who am I to tell himWhat the "score" should be!
Communion
The rain falls down silverlyOn the dark night.Oh, but the air is soft to touchAnd your face white.
This is for remembering,For putting away in the mind's pocketLike a shell - or a treasured stone, foundat the beach—This touch - this kiss - this heart turningtoward heart —This is for rememberingWhen you are beyond reach.
Words, at best, are like thistledown.Let us be quiet, then.Give me your hand!You are my friend, and my love till theworld ends —You understand!
Loud Silence
This is loud silence,This bewildering spaceUntenanted by you.It has the ugly faceOf loneliness!
Hush… foolish heart …You have been here before —This is your bloodThat rusts upon the door!
He Will Not Go Unremembered(For Sir Charles G....