In the torrent salmon sun
the mouth of time sucked, like a sponge,
wind in me leaped, the hellborn dew
tread like a naked Venus
through salt and root and roe.
With doom in the bulb, spring unravels,
greenwood dying as deer fall in their tracks.
We in our Eden knew the secret guardian –
no tell-tale lover has an end more certain,
dumbly and divinely stumbling,
for half of love was planted in the lost
worm in the scalp. Now at my sheet
goes the same crooked worm,
how light sleeping in this soily star.
It shall be said that gods are stone.
Mary Bast, 2014
Various from The Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas