That dark hollow underneath
all that is green and delightful
and for all your blithe youthful
manful trying to deny (tripping
light words, heroic forms)
it is there, ancient:
a rotting bog.
Coming up through that leaf tunnel
to see the rose sprawling tangled
within crumbled tower
I felt it humming below.
Long before Thorn’s warning
I knew if I were to cut her free—
please her at her word—
I’d tumble as surely into that hole
that her roots had long been carving.
Not a trap as he would have it
but merely a regrettable casualty
of nature’s own force.
I borrowed the first line from this poem of Jenifer’s. It got me thinking about beneath-the-surface things, which led me to Rose-Witch and Rupert because I was in a mood for truth-in-fiction over fiction-in-truth.