A Poem for Gwyn’s Feast Day
Follow me through leaves
from this timely hour
to unhourly time
where intricate trees with golden leaves chime.
A rugged, stony walkway
scattered with leaf-gold for our coming
leads to a fortress
in the underground sky.
The portcullis opens.
Oh! The brightness of the feast!
And the dead who died, rigor mortis softened
by enchanted fruits piled high on plates;
blackberries ripe with juice,
apples pixie green,
delicate pink slices of meat
and a glittering horn of golden mead.
Their staring eyes are shining
through fellowship of he
whose look could strike you dead
but today is smiling.
Still, look not upon him nor his hound
with its red eyes and hidden teeth.
Eat nothing, drink nothing.
Touch not one golden leaf.
Follow me back with care
through the chime of golden trees
to where a shower of leaves falls on the trackway
we left one moment ago.