The River Styx.

Fallen arrows from the quiver,
and bow,
of a stumbling Eros
have plunged me
into dream,
and Proserpine's abyss.

Like me my
Proserpine
will wonder along
the shore,
long
to see some more
and bathe
in the shallows
of the River Styx.

In the end she'll know
the cold blast of ice, those
seasonal last goodbyes,
and the roses: every kiss,
which burns in the labyrinth
of her garden
evermore.

She is
balancing on one foot
upon ideology's root and
lounging in the branches,
dreaming slow advances along the bough:
colonies of sloths accompany,
yawning.

... and here lilies grow around her -
they are
Spring's hopeful arms,
mother's arms; which
beckon her away,
caution her to stay!
... but
toes dig in river sand,
golden flecks lifted fling
themselves in the gentle drift
near the rivers shore,
drift out, ever out.

Drifting, too, are
all tears,
     and all memory,
the past dances with life's extremes, and
the soul's eternal yearn
for the infinite,
that call:
the desire to go abroad.


There is
Tennyson's kiss
of lotus
shining high, and blushing
saffron nodding,
lazing, in the lake
sighing for evermore,
Mother passes by
crying
for news of Proserpine
and the lotus sighs.

Too sentimental
the lapping of these waves,
meaning in waves,
one after another
after another - though
all eventually reach their shore.


She visits Hades.
See the roses burning,
catch them as they're falling
return,
gather seed
for her mother's pouch,
their tiny lives unfolding
as soon as they reach Spring's shore.

In the middle of summer-dancing
she was flung
into his arms,
he kissed her then
because they'd ever met before.