An Interlude Poem by John Rickell

My love is of the wild wood
the wild, wild wood and free
gossamer green her robe
resting on her shoulders
tumbling at her feet
dancing on the mossy logs
riding them like centaurs.
Ivory thighs for those in favour.
hidden behind an apple tree,
divest my coarse work clothes
boldly step from out its shade
to the elfin form and soft green moss;
she does not stir but waits,
takes me on her thigh
holds me tight to make us one.
In pity, so it seems;
holds my head in supple hands,
becoming harlot to my wishes.