Love Song

The rhymer comes riding from underhill lands,
Falling through wide-open fields filled with heather.
He comes with reed basket and clay jugs of water,
He glides on the silver-scythe moonlight of harvest,
He sings with the sound of the breeze in his mouth.
So the rhymer comes riding with whistle and bow,
As the fairy-queen, crying, melts into the green,
And the breeze blows through the heather.

I dig dirt beneath stars and chew on sinewy roots.
I tear off the flower and suck on the stem.
I swallow the pith and spit.
I gnaw and scratch, claw and bite
Under the rock of the moon.

The rhymer, now down from his magical steed,
Whispering, wanders out into the purple.
I creep up behind him, eye him, worms in my teeth.
He uncorks an earth jug and pours out his body.
I swallow saliva and look, crack a stick underfoot.
He starts.
I stop.
Then...
We see one another, and you, through quivering stalks,
As the ripening light of the moon is devoured by clouds,
And the breeze blows through the heather.