He moste needs walke in woode
that may not walke in towne.
The Tale of Gamelyn
Brisk, between musings in
the enchanted forests which
she knows exist for the dead-eyed
lords of the hunt, but whom
she indulges anyway and
for her own purposes —
out for the hunted there
not to protect but to continue to
witness that they all have a chance
anyhow.
Has its magnificence — even,
at random, magnanimity.
Does not however
quite fail to preclude
the dreamer in the wood
feeling the hounds’ breath on her
bare calves, before the
green chaos of the forest lofts
(is it by now rainforest?)
becomes new cover.
Remembers that
sustenance is from the forest floor.
Wind-swept up there, then
briskly, though not unaware of
perils, crackling, thuds
all the way down again.
On into town, who may not walk
in town.