For Margaret

PROLOGUE

One tree will make a wood, if you are small enough,
Watching with parted eye and double vision
Where Herne the Hunter, antlers caked with moss,
Rattles his withered chain, and quick as lightning
Knocks a green canopy to stump and crater.
You too can lodge there, rain and shadow falling,
Where the ants cross their tracks, puzzle your eyes
With the quick flicker of a coming migraine,
And, over pale saprophytes, the bracket fungi
Pull water out into brown cloths and cushions.
I crouched there once, upon that draughty landing,
Intent upon two ghosts who once were lovers
Rubbing fierce salts into their open wounds.
The darkness of the tree, the darkness of it,
...