Thru' the night sweet Endymion sleeps,
Awaiting the soft brush of the moon's first kiss.
As moonlight sweeps o'er the sheltered grove,
Evening jasmine peeks thru' Artemis' fingers
(--Creamy-white, silver by night--),
Nymphaea drifting by upon the star-lit water
While Narcissus nods by the rocky pool,
Tired from a long summer day
Of gazing rapt upon his own complexion.
Thrice-fair Narcissus, be not proud.
Paris awarded the Golden Apple to Aphrodite, not you,
She who was enamoured of Adonis (among others)--
Watch how the fairest is yet beguiled.
Wake, Narcissus, from your self-spun spell,
Though Echo herself faded away in despair,
And others fell to your feet, to no avail,
Keep your balance and topple not in.
He rouses-to an infant's squalling,
As mighty Achilles is dipped
Into the waters by one heel--
Even the invincible has one weakness.
But see you, yonder laurel tree?
Proud Apollo pressed his suit too far,
And Daphne did flee--nymph transformed--
Hence yonder laurel tree a warning be.
And why does the willow weep?
I'll tell you, one frond at a time--
Days spun into nights and nights into dawns,
And seasons mesh, spiralling, into years
Thru' time and space and worlds--
And back to the beginning, before time began,
Across the moors, mountains, lakes and lands.
Before we met, or were, or went;
Till lives converge to some--one--centre,
Where, perforce, we pause, threads entwined,
To muse and gaze and wonder.