On the frost-held
field, Orpheus
strides, his greaves
bleak with light,
the split lyre
silver hard
in his hands;
sleek after him
the damp tongued
cringing hounds.
An unaccountable
desire to kneel,
to pray, pulls
my hands but
his head is not
a crown of thorns:
a great antlered
stag, pity
shrinks from
those horns.