OVERTURE by AMANDA BENJAMIN HALL

A plague of stars was overhead,
Of small, insectous ones,
And many little milk-sop moons,
And microscopic suns.

An iron owl with lantern eye
Above the wood's dark rust
Saw cart-wheels turning in the sky,
Admired the pretty dust,

And made a moan and dubbed it song,
Then listened to the sound:
It was a hurt a meter long
And bleeding as a wound.

While lustrous lay the earth below
With silver going cheap
There wasn't anyone to know --
(The greedy were asleep!)

But from the coppice to the left
A satyr or its brother
Leaped lightly, showed its foot was cleft,
And beckoned to another.

With faces green as gas and look
As comic as your own
They clambered out of every nook
Among the frosted stone,

And from metallic flowers, stiff,
Dew-smelling and night-dim,
The fairies rose and stretched as if
To ease the aching limb.

While moonbeams pelted down like rain
The pitter-patter feet
Came ringing bells across the plain
Or hopping from retreat.

On mushroom seats of splashing gold,
Of pearl or ivory,
They filed to place as they were told
Proudly and funnily.

Then was a pompous pixie heard,
Gray with a gargoyle grin,
And, tinkle-tinkle, fell his word,
"I think we may begin . . . ."

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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