The Apple-Nymph
The apples gilded by the sun,
the apples pallid in the moon,
are plucked from heavy boughs of hope
by those who walk the shadowed ways.
These kisses from a dryad-nymph,
who hides behind the mask of bark,
refresh from journeys long and dark,
and bring the weary traveler peace.
The ache is fading into air,
a puddle that vanishes into sun,
and in the apple blossom sweet,
I catch a glimpse of dryad-nymph,
a glimmer of a goddess-girl.
A whisper of a goddess-name
lights my paper heart aflame
and brings me like a prayer to earth.
I am a fish in a fishful sea,
I am a berry bright on bush,
I am a star in a crystal sky,
but only when I catch her eye.
Then I am peeled like hazel wands
and, naked glass, the god shines through,
and lay my head on her lap to die
with apple-song both old and new.
Life in the Valley of Hinnom
Moloch grins in the valley of Hinnom,
fiery smiles of burning death --
angel of light,
ringed and haloed with screaming flame --
anointed cherub,
chrismed with infant blood --
and we who have tasted lie
put children in the maw,
speaking the pieties of this age,
this world of very present darkness,
rejoicing in our freedom,
leaping in our joy.
But did we not see a glimmer,
a spark of another way,
when John leaped in the womb?
Then mother and unborn babe
were prophets of a king unborn.
