LAUREL

She keeps a vigil by lake Kournas
each evening when the sun and moon
are on an even keel,
before their alignment shifts
and tilts one upwards and
the other into the arid ground.

She lights a candle and recalls
the chase as the flame quivers
in the unsettled breezeโ€ฆ
a god with a transfixing arrow,
and a riot of golden hair.

He called it love –

but she knew it to be self-regarding;
he the hunter, she the prey.
And to this day she is glad
for Gaia, dear mother,
who replaced her

with an evergreen

Its acrid leaves offer solace to Apollo
who snaps them off
and twists them into a wreath,
unhappiness piercing his heart
like Eros’ arrow might have done.

Meanwhile, the roots of the laurel
slowly, slowly

pierce the soil.

 

 

Katy has been published in Drawn to the Light Press Issue 3, and she will appear later this year in the inaugural edition of ‘The Liminal Review’. She is working on two poetry pamphlets and a collaboration with English artist Carolyn Coles.