son poem

thou unrelenting past
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
do you remember
out of the deep and the dark
i can not tell you now
the child who threw away leaf after leaf
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
she was a beauty in the days
beneath the warrior's helm
one sweetly solemn thought