lift from the ivy brake, a king.

Enough of the lightning,

enough of the tales that speak

of the death of the mother:

strange tales of a shelter

brought to the unborn,

enough of tale, myth, mystery, precedent—

a child lay on the earth asleep.

Soft are the hands of Love,

but what soft hands

clutched at the thorny ground,

scratched like a small white ferret

or foraging whippet or hound,

sought nourishment and found

only the crackling of ivy,

dead ivy leaf and the white

berry, food for a bird,

no food for this who sought,

bending small head in a fever,

whining with little breath.

 Prev. P 20/71 next