Bronwyn Carter


Cracks light through the canopy:
down in the valley
sweet Narcissus,
thick with leaves
sits folded, like stone.

The tinkling of his reflection as it hits the glass
webbed leaves blow across.

Limpid mirrors of his luminous eyes frame
pale hooves in the grass.

The twin has departed.

Who owns the sun?

In the green light of those hill fires
a great, symphonic animal breathes;

biology calms itself
not needing
the hands that hold back disintegration.

Pan melts to shadow.

Diana’s favourite.