At Harvest
Womb-fellow of the dark and sweet-scented apple;
Womb-fellow of the gourd and of the grape:
Like begotten, like born.
And yet without a lover's knowledge
Of thy secrets
I would walk the ridges of the hills,
Kindless and desolate.
What were the storm-driven moon to me,
Seed of another father?
What the overflowing
Of the well of dawn?
What the hollow,
Red with rowan fire?
What the king-fern?
What the belled heath?
What the drum of grouse's wing,
Or glint of spar,
Caught from the pit
Of a deserted quarry?
Let me kiss thy breasts:
I am thy son and lover.
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