By the mere

The Oracle gave me a story poem. I’ve just come back from wandering in the woods by the stream and found a large pond, long and meandering, among the trees.

By the mere

I heard her first, her quiet sobbing
by the mere among the trees,
there was no wind.

My feet among the dead leaves sounding
loud as horses hooves, I waited,
standing still.

Her gown I glimpsed was russet red,
a hind, she was, so hard to see
among the trees,

until she shook her dark hair, raised
her face so pale, so fair, and stood
upon the bank.

The woods sobbed with despair and sorrow,
as soundless as a bird she dived,
red salmon-leap.

Too late, I cried out, wait, not yet!
The bramble brake barred still my way
the path too long.

The mere was smooth and not a ripple
marked the place where she had gone.
The water dark

as winter nights without the stars
was undisturbed, no pale face raised,
to see the sky for one last time,
was to be seen.