Beith, the birch

The pale lady dances on the old field
the fences graying, crumbling to dust
goldenrod, mullein, Queen Anne’s lace, cornflower
where once cows bustled to the new barn.

But that has ended in the long-ago.
The pond forgets the farmer’s dull tread
as its mud swallows the memory of boots.
The field is wild now, pasture for deer.

The birch wasn’t the first on the dance floor.
She wasn’t the moment of ending
the passage of one song to another.
She is, instead, the scrawl on the wall

that marks the first words of the new poem.
Forgotten the farmer, forgotten the field
and only her high step through the meadow
a wraith in her white sheath, garlanded green.

Quick in the breeze now, a shimmer of hair
as mice clamber in the gold at her foot
the bobcat, all stillness, hunting them down
as she writes with her light foot on the green.


About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
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