Pan

Though wood it’s called, this wood is far, far
From your native habitat. Lost in an urban setting,
Delayed, waylaid, your hair wet with the wild rain of a wild night
You laid me. 

Here are your marks upon my back, and here
And here, upon my flanks. Here among my John Lewis bedlinen lurks your
rank, hot, bestial perfume;
The ghost of our capering. 

Capricious, wanton, you led me
On the path that lies across the lily leven.

Hornless and horned,
Riding and ridden
Of tether,
My bellwether:
Bawdy,
Beloved brute
Force of nature. 

Alexa Duir, Imbolc 2001