Dryad (Poetry)

Smooth-trunked and slender, the body you live in,
your spirit an echo at home in the heart
of a tree lightly swaying in time to a rhythm
the west wind is humming — its low, wistful part.

Your face in deep shadow — mysterious, veiled by
the green-knitted tangle of twigs in your hair;
you wild thing — you creature conceived in the womb-wood —
you haunt with your whispers, unsettle the air.

Your dress a moss patchwork — for lichens adore you
almost as much as the lingering sun,
and rain runs long fingers to love and explore you —
sighing and trembling, your secrets undone.

Your soul has a voice in the sough of cool branches
as you wake to the dewfall, leaves damped by the night,
and you stretch, wave at stars fading fast in the ether,
reach up, to be touched by the first rays of light.

How eagerly sun leans to stroke and caress you,
spreading pure pleasure along every limb —
for you are his muse — growing tall in your beauty —
a mythical being, and worshipped by him.



Painting by Rob Greenwood, reproduced with the permission of the artist. More of Rob's work can be found here: www.robgreenwoodartist.co.uk