We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage / And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die, / We Poets of the proud old lineage / Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why ... (James Elroy Flecker)

2.6.26

Great Mystery

 

After dancing with him in the forest

one recalls few details – only the speed

of reckless feet, the rush of wind

through flowing hair, the giddying swirl

inside firm arms holding safe, and 

the after-taste of ecstasy. (He has

many names, the Horned God.)




Written for Quadrille 249 at dVerse. (44 words not including title, which on this occasion must include some form of the word 'horn'.)