Village of Winter Carols

Village of winter carols

and gawdy spinning tops,

of green-handed walnuts

and games in the moon.

You were adventure’s web,

the flag of fear I flew

riding black stallions

through the rocky streets.

You were the first faint map

of the mysterious sun,

chart of my island flesh

and the mushroom-tasting kiss.

But no longer do I join

your children’s sharp banditti,

nor seek the glamour of

your ravished apples.

Your hillocks build no more

their whales and pyramids,

nor howl across the night

their springing wolves.

For crouching in my brain

the crafty thigh of love

twists your old landscape

with a new device.

and every field has grown

a strange and flowering pit

where I must try the blind

and final trick of youth.