Pan

Pan, by Inertia K

Your voice is heard
in the whispering of the olive trees
Your hoofbeats
echo in the rain on the roof at night
Your goaty fragrance
finds its way into my dreams
The curve of your back
is in the sinuous folds of the land
The crook of your horns
is in the crescent Moon
The music of your pipes
is whistling down the wind
Your wild dancing
stirs the Maenads to ecastic frenzy.
Your holy tree
is growing by the altar
next to my heart.

Pan, whose home is the wilderness
may I not fear the wild places
far from human habitat
may I not fear the wind
that brings constant change
may I not fear the sublime moment
of recognising my own smallness
in the face of all that is

(Yvonne Aburrow)