swirling in the lamplight
Narnian and silent, she is waiting
Watching as the droplets slide down her hair
And the net of webs woven through it.
she leaves no trace in the snow
Save the rain that cascades behind her mist.
And the scent of the sky
Is enough to drive men mad.
has been sleeping long and long,
Beneath the firs sheltering her grave
The apples that lay fermenting sweetness last fall
Dropped their seeds to sprout above her.
I went walking through the woods
Greeting her in silence as befits a god
Wishing for the touch of calon lan
That comes only with her return.
whipping tale of the comet
In the astral winds beyond sight
Presaged a late return this year,
But the warbler on my window sang her in.
Anne Cross, 1997
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