Canto

And then went down to the horizon’s edge,
where a gate swung free on its ancient hinge,
where the ballplayers who had won the game
were slain, among the long roots near the sea
spray rising and falling into waves large
with hurricane whipping them into froth . . .
I do not know if there were many dead,
I can hold only the living in mind,
and one only, her eyes stirring ashes
of fires banked against the turbulent earth
as her body moves, she a foal stepping
through a canter to glide into her lope,
such a pace does one life hold in her legs,
her youth releasing the storm’s energy.

                                                                      a la belleza oscura

(3 April [posted here 11 April] 20012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander