John Rickell

(I November 1931 / York)

The Faun


In the thistle bed
you play, dancing
rhythms all your own
no ballet pas de deux,
alone you skip and jump.
outside the copse,
humming in the evening breeze,
an orchestra of leaves and branches
accompany you, extempore;
from the heart, not the mind.
Listen hard, this comes but once
from whence I do not know
innocent as bramble juice
drink deep, autumn is so short,
just this one time
hear your parents' cries
goodbye, my gratitude, goodbye
your rhythms returned
to dance another day.

Submitted: Sunday, January 19, 2014

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