Aricia
Death
in the Grove by night,
the
mere at its heart a starry plain,
marred
by yellowed leaves,
no
signs of an old pact,
no
remembrance,
no
reenactment of the falling ox,
the
bull, the goat, the horse, the cock of the dying year.
Always
there, Her, the same, changeless, eternal,
the
passion of the wood,
long
centuries dying,
and
thoughtless judgment on Her,
the
falling ax, the sword, the brand, arrow, spear, mace,
faltering
step, the stumble, the tumble,
down
a cold dark tunnel with no end,
no
beginning, just always Was,
but
now forgotten, not remembered,
worship
worn to a nub, a nothing, a footnote
in
books, on parchment, written in pigs’ blood
on
stones, on the leaves, the earth,
in
the grunting rites, on their backs, their bellies,
the
holy union,
each
last attempt, the age-old job
of
bringing the new year, it's over, really
gone
at last down that tunnel,
no
name eternal, no burning,
no
ghostly breath of mystery,
just
a primeval fancy, the dry leaves of history,
nothing
monumental, unseen,
moving
with a powerful weight in the wind, the dancing leaves,
the
waving grain,
hackle-raising
in the ruddy glow of sunset,
no
blood of sacrifice,
just
Italian smog.
First
published in "The Conspiracy Unmasked," 1994
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