It was a forest of children’s graves.
Like mist, lovers slipped in and left
A sacrifice; not to gods, but to mortals.
Amid stone trees the huntress
with tangled hair and tattered hem,
independent of veil or child
sat on the meadow as doe.
Prey to become a lover.
The god of truth and light,
golden lyre at his side,
saw in the woodland savage a
divinity of grace, delicate as the lily.
Blood red moon above as Apollo
set off on his pursuit, autumn
leaves of fire at his feet. Lover’s
prey disappearing amid thick oaks.
“Do not fear.” Apollo called to her,
struggling to gain against one so loved
and accomplished in escape.
“Stop and find out who I am,
no rude rustic or Shepard.
I am the Lord of Delphi, and
I love you.”
Daphne darted away more frightened
than before with the speed of a
jaguar and the strength of death following.
The silver bow on her neck, she cried
“Help me! Father, help me!”
Her swift feet numbed and
slowed to the Earth; toes digging
in and finding root faster down than across.
Apollo lowered his arrows and
dug into the earth caring for the Laurel
as he would have killed Daphne.
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