SACRED VALLEY by CLIFFORD GESSLER

Dark things have happened in the misted hills
in the rainy months, in the dark lobe of the year.
See this small valley like a gash in the mountain,
with the stream flowing down between the thick lantana

and at its head, beneath the hanging rocks,
a somber pool that never knows the sun.
Lay the leaf on the stone, and the stone upon it,
and tread softly in that valley, slipping among the boulders.

The Pig-Child watches from the gloomy height,
these are his hoofprints on the muddy trail.
Hark, as you dodge that stone that hurtles down --
do you not hear his distant, mocking laughter?

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