Narcissus Poem by Mark Heathcote

What God of Gods?
Is it he who makes mistakes?
Cut moonflowers for a vase.
Night-blooming heads: vine-snakes
Grown in a black Narcissus, birthplace
Flowers, that nectar for night moths of death.
Ah - opened in His breast, whose mirror weeps on?
Is she not kissed by his morning breath?
What God, of Gods, makes others fawn?
Or lovers likes of Echo turn to stone.
However, briefly, his scorning,
She's an angel living alone.