Cynewulf Beneath the Hemlock Trees
One is amazed. Men, but stones.
Marginal as lightning-etched angel, in red,
Or so no drab, but one with the hair of a pythoness replied,
Between sculpted vine and was it psaltery?
Mitered with ravens in the trees, with regress
I tossed tooth-shaped stones
In a decayed ring of rowan and ash.
Of why I ditched self-portraiture in that grove,
While the Queens Sir knew I was not bladed, I will not say.
Sparking the severance of that day,
She picked at gyrovague berries, tonsured
where memory worsens
That she may dog him with bear mouth and broken brain
Water spawned in poor light
where the last salmon gasps.
Of all other shadows,
Water leans in every face:
This is no answer, I accused her. What do you mean
Lament praise what we
Hear too late or not at all? Who on earth
was she, anyway? When I insisted,
She only smiled, raven-stirred.