page 73

II

High Moon

The Hills are barren, we are told,
Grow nothing — even shepherds swear
They'll talk to the valley in the fall
And there grow old in comfort. Only
Our wild, infertile children share
An equal passion for fields nearer home
And for that other, high, crag-twisted air.

And even they, in growing up to courtship,
Step down to love among the lower slopes
Where screes, stray blossoms, bramble bush,
Provide a shelter for stray hours. Of course,
Our men, even the married ones, sometimes
Dare the highest peaks with guns and ropes.
Flesh bedded down, they need to love alone.

But always, always, there are some,
Maiden and man who cannot love alone
Nor yet sleep snugly, even together,
In the warmth and ritual of harvest home.
Something, scratching at their sleep, can still
Make a husband bristle, a young wife whimper,
And long again to race the moonlit peaks.

It seems it is never enough for them,
Our glowing roofs I mean, where warmth
Waits for the thin thread of desire to snap,
Catching the flesh in comfort as it falls.
Our elders shake their heads and point to graves
Where lovers lie in knots, found frozen cold
Beneath the high moon's bleak malignant gaze.

Peter Bland

page 74