Written in the Alps, 1973, Grenoble, France
by Susan Fox
He comes with leaves,drops brown and cracklingonto pavement,shrieks cold and sharpthrough the city;He rises and dies.
Have you heard therustling from the mountains?Can you see Hisautumn red slashed across the hills?Rain sweet and fresh, He tastes of morning.“Come,” He said; I went.I wrapped myself in the hills.But a city wind blows therethe whistling from the gutter;I heard the infant crylouder, LOUDER than leaves.Once we found the mountains shakenwith expectant birth of my Beloved;but all the Kings and Diplomatscannot stop the slow erosion of "I believe!"nor the bold rivers of hope. Arise!
Clouds settled on a hill called Skull.I climbed that hill and sat in fog,arms around the middle tree;For three days all life had gone –the wind blows hollow on a hill for weeds.The blood on the grey stone church wallsbeckoned me down to human places.Now, I bleed freely, too,and listen to leaves, the cry of children.