Coursing the myth


The priest dressed in his mystic robes

Sprinkles the course with magic water

Calling down a benediction from on high

Not on the goaded beaten hounds

But to crush the memories of another time

Older by far than his god hanging on a bloody tree

Whispered in the pulse of the timid quivering hare.

The moon and the dawn, love and life,

Death and resurrection, is this gentle hare,

Carrying in her bones the secrets he abhors

Who would tear the heart from all the wonder and the magic in the world

And make it echo with his hollow words.

The priest is satisfied with his muttered rites

Presses his scapulars of destruction to his lips

When with a woman’s voice she cries, the hare

As her heart’s blood seeps back into our holy ground.