The Labours of the Natural Earth

The lake is a black dress, rippling beneath her form
 that betray the alien sky, no crosses , no belts
 just that central star
These hills are more than ever a portent
 of a path to take, which did not run long enough
 All these ages rest like layers of silk on the skin
 pale petals of moments, inside ruins
 walking with the deer
 Wearing orange and tasting the air
 the labours of the natural earth
 She moves as though for nothing more than pleasure
 and all other thoughts are lost
 except the taste of strawberries and the sound of snow
underfoot

She lay in the glow of snowlight, bare to the ceiling
 an impossible silence
 hair awry and eyes clouded clear
 This is a veil, this is a pathway to tread
 Grow old and glottal voiced
 climb peaks and slither in the decay of leaves
 make love to everything that occurs
 bad poems, red dawn-song, clear waters.