Villanelle

Yes, Another One1

I hope there aren’t too many typos left in this poem. I tapped it out last night with my eyes closed to minimize photophobia from my current migraine. While a keyboard is a great help at such times, I’ve been trying to proofread with my eyes half-open this morning, and, well, there were quite a few oddities in my typing, and there may be some still…

Here is another villanelle; this one goes back to the form’s pastoral roots.

Long Ago

Tell me a tale where the dryads are sleeping
deep in the shade of an ancient oak tree,
quiet and deep in our memories’ keeping.

See, I can see them now, under the sweeping
branches that shadow them.  Come, memory,
tell me a tale where the dryads are sleeping

or tell of their laughter, their dancing, their leaping
there where the sunset leads down to the sea,
quiet and deep in our memories’ keeping.

Say not the dryads are legends just creeping
back to dark days that were more gloom than glee;
tell me a tale where the dryads are sleeping

slender and fair as the woodlands, or reaping
flower and fruit where the earth yields them free.
Quiet, and deep in our memories’ keeping

glow the far days, and now I lie weeping
at sunrise and sunset for never shall ye
tell me a tale where the dryads are sleeping
quiet and deep in our memories’ keeping.`

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