Dyes Cast

Each night

As he drops his head

To the deep dream

Of the dark bed,

A shape beckons him

Wellaway

From the starlight

And the dim day.

 

A mare

Black as a spade, calls

From the dark hill

As the wind falls,

The reeds mutter

The night is black

As he leaps blind

To the mare’s back.

 

Then like the roar

Of an ill wind

Or a black flame

From the devil’s kiln,

The mare speeds

To the night’s work

By the old mill

And the dark Kirk.

 

Shapes flutter

And leap alight

Before they sputter

And, out of sight

Disport and mutter

Of black arts

To see the mare

And the rider pass.

 

Hour on hour

He clings to scenes

Of dark images,

Wild dreams

And chance friends

From the dead past

In the grim haunts

Of dyes cast.

 

His face burns

And tears stream

In the long night

Of the dark dream,

He clings grim

To the mare’s back

For his soul’s sake

And a long lack.

 

The day brinks

At night’s mist;

‘There may be nothing

More than this,’

The mare fades

From his wide eyes -

But the thoughts bide,

And the old lies.

 

‘There may be nothing

More than this!’

And his mind seeks

The mare, the mist;

‘There may be nought

But the dead past,

And the dark haunts

Of dyes cast.’

 

David Lewis Paget