Ode to Pan

Ode to Pan

He is in the hint of the wild forest,
Yet in penumbra, his wonder rests.
His whispered notes - a dulcet cascade- ‘thrall,
As his delicate fingers nimbly and
with such rich abandon -lithely- caress;
Though his intense sacred breath -cool and firm-
Is always tempered and in full control.

How his fragile melody opens muscles
to slowly spread the nymphs beguiling limbs;
For in his calling surges from the rich depths,
In an old tongue now lost to mortal man
where this hubris ridden blinded bleating flock
Whom are spiritually absent: razored dreams.

In the soft glade where the wild rustlings glow,
where the bells bellow and the loose lions rip-a-roar;
 In this  -peaceful- never-lost  sacred space
The Nymphs -in sweet abandon- slowly sigh.
They awake with the golden apple of the sun
And the charms of Pan fragile flute unfurling.

Between the leaves of the dew weighted trees,
Whose high honey bounty, slow reveals a truth,
They, with soft steps, follow him from alcoves  
Where the old black-veined -white stone- pools do dwell
Their  bare calls: Innocent whispering sighs
 Stirring wood henges: opening faraway eyes.

Here they tuck; writhing his romance,
Their lustrous eyes, a half-hidden appeal;
Their faces full of mirth’s innocent indolence.
How the rich the scent of the old wood echoes,
with the delicate murmur of the evermore;
to this: his wild secret, sacred, sweet delight.