New poem

Posted on inPoetry

Syrinx

 

Pure gleaners linger, haunted by

the amber flutes of afternoon

and golden locks of sun-gods, strewn

regardless over fields of rye.

 

Deep in the thickets’ covert shade

a woodwind ambush is preparing

outside the range of human hearing;

bassoons lean over every glade.

 

Aeonian and beyond death,

the goat-foot piper idly slides

his caprine lip across the reeds

thrilling at the divine breath.