Magic
Golden Chains
Into the forest the maiden
walked,
two elegant greyhounds on
silken leash.
The summer leaves were
emerald green,
her face as fair as a
blushing rose.
Deeper she walked where fairies
dwell,
where woodpeckers tap their
secret code.
Above the crystal water of
the stream,
dragon flies hover in the
still, silent air.
In the heart of the green wood, she hears
the whirring sound of a
spinning wheel.
Into the shadow of a cool,
hidden glade
my lady walks on silvern
shoe.
There at the wheel a princess
sits,
spinning fine threads of
purest gold.
Her face is like the fairest
bloom
that flowers in summer
groves.
As the maiden looks, the enchantment fades.
The spinner’s face is now an
old crone’s,
with toothless smile and
ravaged skin.
The golden skein is now
golden chains
rattling like prisoners in
deepest dungeons.
The greyhounds, black cats
with amber eyes,
yowl at the hideous old
crone’s feet.
In the invading darkness they
burn and glow.
The old witch with bony
finger beckons,
the Maid’s feet move of their
own volition.
At the wheel she sits, fine
golden thread spins.
The trees are dark and bare
in the cold east wind,
snow falls softly on grass,
beech and birch.
The Maid is aging, as in a
nightmare!
For her Love she begins to
passionately yearn
But the Fates determine,
she’ll never return.
The White Hare
A white hare races through the forest,
pine trees whisper secret messages,
bramble thickets give willing refuge,
rooks on high, croak loud warnings.
The spirits side with their own.
Pursuers are fast closing in,
galloping horses sweat and strain.
Angry riders whip and urge
a well-aimed arrow, lodges cruelly,
in the back of the ghostly hare.
Now over the open field,
he runs faster still, despite
the wound bleeding freely.
The horsemen make a dash
to catch the
fleeing devil
A lonely cottage, looms ahead,
the hare flies through the key hole.
The oak door bursts open,
an old crone sits in a rocking chair.
Her black cat glares, amber-eyed.
They cannot see from her back
a wound bleeds; blood flows free.
The white hare has vanished.
Only red stains on the rush floor,
show where it may have been.
(Many cultures, including in UK, have
regarded hares as creatures capable of
changing form. There are many stories
of witches taking the form of hares
to escape reprisal.)
That Other Country
Dark and deep in the forest
the trees press closer.
The canopy is thick,
impenetrable, no sky no light
breaks through the green
gloom.
A black bird perched still,
unmoving on the shadowy pine
may be carved into the frozen
branch.
Creepers twist and writhe,
green serpents in a green wilderness.
The sudden breeze sets the
forest whispering, signalling
a secret, unbreakable
arboreal code.
In the tangle of a thorny
thicket, the quivering of a leaf
marks hidden life, moving,
existing unseen
through the centuries, the
epochs the eons of time and of history.
Ants follow in regimental
lines unmoved, undisturbed
by Empires, dynasties or
conquests.
The silence is broken
by the regular tapping of a
green woodpecker,
a message of ancient
woodlands.
Silvery trails mark the slow,
labyrinthine journeys
of snails over leaves and
tall grasses.
As light fades the barking of
an old dog fox,
sets off an anxious rustling.
The forest wakes and sleeps
to its own rhythm and
purpose.
Sarah Das Gupta is a teacher from near Cambridge, UK. She has also taught in India and Tanzania. Her work has been published in twelve countries and a number of magazines,including, 'Lothlorian', 'The American Review', 'Paddler', 'Perfect Haiku', 'Humana Obscura', 'Green Ink', 'Creation', 'Berlin Review', 'BarBar', 'Danse Macabre' and others.
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