Beeches

They muster an irregular yet monolithic avenue
Up the ridge that leads to Loughton Camp –
More than merely trees. The forest exhibits these
Grey entities in its sculpture gallery. We are treated
To a private view in the sense that we are alone with them,
Their surfaces shared only with the Sun, the Sun
Who may well be the artist; for it is the gaze of light
That alerts us to their imagery. Here a stalwart minotaur
Flexes his biceps, torso embellished with muscle,
Just like some Hercules showing off his pack to
The Vatican. Look at the talon-tipped paws on that sphinx!
She sits up alert, guarding the camp, which has after all
Been here two thousand years, lost in the leaves.
The several breasts of this enigma gleam
Where odd suggestive members broach desire.
This is perhaps evidenced by the plump woman
In the blue skirt, who gets up suddenly as we approach.
She has been seated on some moss while leaning, with
Her back to us, against a fallen trunk; gazing, we
Guess ardently, at a daemon wound in self-embrace.
Is this why she rises so fast and hurries off? Why
Would one go walking through the forest in a skirt like that?

 

Now published in Songs of Realisation

by The High Window Press

About anthonyhowelljournal

Poet, essayist, dancer, performance artist....
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