Was it meant to be a metaphor? The girl
in a tree, Thorn soft-laughing, leaves
spiraling down in gold-slanted sun?
On the road the king’s men, riding closer,
singing “Greensleeves,” and I came here to save
her. It was her hawk, said Thorn, it has been
done before. I think Rose is straying
rather far from the mark. It has been done
before: The hawk in the tree, the lady
with a sword, in the breeze autumn leaves
stirring, then still.