you dragged a bruised thigh—you limped—

you clutched this larch.

Did your head, bent back,

search further—

clear through the green leaf-moss

of the larch branches?

Did you clutch,

stammer with short breath and gasp:

wood-daemons grant life—

give life—I am almost lost.

For some wood-daemon

has lightened your steps.

I can find no trace of you

in the larch-cones and the underbrush.

[10]

[10]

THE CONTEST

I

Your stature is modelled

with straight tool-edge:

 Prev. P 15/64 next