… Among the shadows of the groaning elms,
amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves …
… Once there were paths that led to coracles
that clung to piers like loosening barnacles …
… where we cannot return, because we lost
the pebbles and the playthings, and the moss …
… hangs weeping gently downward, maidens’ hair
who never were enchanted, and the stairs …
… that led up to the Fortress in the trees
will not support our weight, but on our knees …
… we still might fit inside those splendid hours
of damsels in distress, of rustic towers …
… of voices of the wolves’ tormented howls
that died, and live in dreams’ soft, windy vowels …
Featured in New Lyre Summer 2022
The New Lyre 
It’s always an honor to be published by New Lyre. Comments and suggestions are always welcome.
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