A Woodland Lay Poem by James Mullaney

While skeptics level magic arts to myth
and syllogism swears the truth it yields,
cauldrons of the cunning brew mandrake pith
and Beltan fires christen barley fields.
The churches in cities teach father gods -
men of the cloth solicit banditti.
White shirted sharpers set casino odds;
salvation is by select committee.
Then up a quail flutters, harmless as down,
whose habitat is Peace, and Light, and Fair,
pleated summer meadows, broad woods of brown -
hale woods of viceroys in a vibrant air.
At day dusk, all along the river weirs,
the Mother Goddess winks, and disappears.