I pondered long
this strange phenomenon
that Phoebe, fleet of foot
and strong as fawn
when young should stretch herself
at night on Grecian mountains
daring the satyrs to awake from caves
and throw stark images
on the steel bright rocks.
Yet now in England
she flees our darkening woods
where triglets clutch
and mist damp glades
hang heavy with wood smoke
forgotten cottages growing
from the roots of oaks.
As for me, in darkening woods
at owl call
my inner self begins to roam
the shuttered house,
I flee the lights to be alone.
Mice move underfoot
earth breathes
trees etch themselves against the sky
boles deep in mossy beds.
Dark unto dark
to the Merlin woods
I go.