Feast in the Forest

Fine lace that water spiders spin,

Frail water-lily porcelain,

Round leaves of water cress laid out

To hold the coral flesh of trout,

The beaded globes of blackberries,

The mushroom's fluted delicacies-

But first she chose a dark pool for her table's

Polished oval, there to spread this feast

Of all the forest's daintiest,

The coloured food of dreams and lovers' fables.

The single guest crouched down to eat-

His hands were exquisite, his feet

Hid deep in fern, a pointed lock

Sprang from each brow, he seemed to mock

A harsh mouth with a honeyed tongue,

His eyes were old, his eyelids young.

Gently he weighed between a thumb and finger

Each crumb of her fastidious bread,

Each heart-shaped drop of wine, and said,

He had no thirst, he felt no hunger.

While in each water-lily cup

The flushed and fragrant dew dried up,

He smiled his slanting smile and told

Of other feasts-While the green mould

Mottled the straight immaculate roots,

The innocent lustre of the fruits,

Sweetly he leaned to her, his small eyes glistened

To say he had not been averse

To other forests unlike hers . . .

Quiet she sat and piteously listened.