“Pale rain over the dwindling harbour / And over the sea wet church the size of a snail / With its horns through mist and the castle / Brown as owls” from “Poem in October” by Dylan Thomas
I speak of a creature
altogether wonderful whose wild heart
seeking glory is always wont to wander.
It leaves a trail in the grass that spirals upward
toward the constellations.
Magical beasts attend it
to harvest the secrets of lilac and clover.
They put their precious booty
into flowing gowns for the queen of taffeta
and staves for the mad musician.
Such an amazing mollusk it is
with horns extended and a gut full of
half-digested things: old hurts and longings,
marsh mellow sunsets, sweet wind after rain,
lost love and a child’s lost liturgies.
Beside “this frowsty barn”
let out to rain and sheep, it rests
in leaf mold of latent hunger and compulsion.
If only I knew its rare entrances and exits
but it comes and goes on my dreams.