Snowdrop 9.1: Procession
For all the feet that have angled their way
to his dell, none have damaged the earth:
there are no paths to this place in the mist.
She feels her torpor in the folds of her bones,
in the cups of her eyes; her ache of steps
furnished in thoughts focussed on - nothing.
A muddy godling guides her to doom
and others follow, an odd collection
of the lost and the damned, living and dead.
Witness the Betsy; the boy who shakes;
the purgat'ry man; the maid of Kent
and her smuggler friend; the soldier, his lad.
The queen's fair still fucks in the woods.
The hunter's dogs still howl and chase.
The corporal still calls to his callous god
in his chapel of mist, and the marshes flood
to capture the Roman captain's ship -
the grand and black Grattack still hunts.
The Peggy has left her pond tonight.
Jack of the Flame jerks as he dances
across the boughs of the bark-built woman.
And Snowdrop is dressed in sheets of white
cinched at the waist by a string of ivy
and crowned with holly - a holy gift
for the Tallyman's knife, a token of life
to bring the heat of a birthing sun
back to a world now bound in ice.