Reading 38 - The White Deer
The White Deer
In the high northern meadows; and the iridescent green,
In the light bubbling song; so slowly sung,
In the sharp morning air; and the fragile light,
The white deer walks; and the impossible song
So slowly sung; captures my treacherous heart.
Belly-flat in the short winter grass,
Cold as the thin mists part,
The white deer skittish,
Low against the weak winter sun,
Scents my teenage scent and breaks.
In the chill core of winter,
I would wake before dawn,
And watch the geometry of fields and walls, fold
Into the infinite fallow fawn, far-drawn; led-on
By the sinuous roll of my murmurous tease.
Touching ash-slender trails of morning-white,
Deft valley curtains, pale-pearl, moistening the misting shore,
Slowly sliding filigree, shrouding the shy white deer,
As he emerges, hot from my dreams at night.
Soft against the arctic gutter of my chest,
Through the swish of the wet green grass,
And the limestone ring of a celandine spring,
The white deer looms high and snorting;
And through the rocks and ruins,
Invades the tempest of my half-drawn life.
In the smooth virgin snows ploughed six inches deep,
Stalking the trail of my elusive white hart,
Lost in the sticky talcum of desire,
Cloudy with inexperience,
My love swirling sick,
I stumble and fall.
Trampled roughly by soldiers,
A lance through my curdled heart,
My uncontrolled dark stain unfurls.
In the high northern meadows; and the iridescent green,
In the light bubbling song; so slowly sung,
In the sharp morning air; and the fragile light,
The white deer walks; and the impossible song
So slowly sung; captures my treacherous heart
