The Cross

three poems

THE CROSS

The sound of cavalry

Comes ebbing on the wind.

Wind is my torturer:

Impatient to abet

Driving rain and sleet;

Patient to join with snow

In timbering my cross.

I'm leeched with snails of wet

Which will freeze when the snows

Start from the mountain tops

Down every glen and coomb.

The horsemen and their drums

Are silenced by the wind:

Who goes there? No one goes

As from my Calvary,

Ice-ridden, I descend.