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In this borderwood, nets sweaty,
all our parishfolk stand ready, Crown-commanded to treat as real Thurber's animal-maiden tale The White Deer. So we dog the wood,
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We've only seen each other. Are we
white enough to hunt? Aren't we too dim? Shade-hush. Of a sudden, wild and white Creatures all leap free! In a sing- le choreographic overspring
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Elegant willowy these White Beasts--
if deer then deer swiftdrawn on paper rough as bark, in chalk-- (for chalk is all our Albion). To our gloom-adapted eyes they shone like lithe lights, unpinnable swift blur-fish in this wood abyss. |
Before we can raise a net,
they're gone. Now what? Empty butterfly hoops. I think "We've a long hunt yet." As I ponder the pulse of their gleaming ever-after-images, I wonder who she is we sought to net. And there ends my dreaming. |
