The Stomp of the Nymph


He had a palm full of gold and neckline laced with violet

On his sleeve was his soul, only you’d be unlikely to find it

He rose with the moon and delved deep into the wood

Called out to the loon only to be misunderstood


Moss-covered and damp he trod thick on the ground

He was off to his camp, off-grid and wildwood bound

Where he’d rip off his cloth and dive deep into water

Immersed as a moth flittered out with his daughter


The nymph of the forest, barefoot back to the plains

She would summon her hardest the greatest of rains

To fill up that great pool with liquid vitality

This was all of the fuel the two of them would ever need


So long as the great rains continued to fall

They could run, they could play, amongst the trees, withdrawn

They could laugh, they could harvest a whole bounty of charms

They could crash through dimensions of four legs and eight arms


But the moment the stomping did not draw down that pour

The little nymph would ask mother willow womping why her pool was no more

And the willow would sing that she rose til she fell

Much like the wings of heaven and the darkness of hell


So the nymph grabbed her father and they raced to the plains

Eyes cast on another with alien veins

This thing was grey with eyes cast like squares

Pale complexion it could pay with green leaves and blond hair


Try as they might they could not understand

This blond grey thing in their sight with the dirtiest of hands

So they looked to the sky and called out to the moon

“Help us, we cry, they’ve come all too soon!”


The kind of the woodland began to drift to the stars

Away from the willow and flying onward past Mars

But still they kept going, racing light years ahead

To a small pocket of violet glowing where that night they’d lay their heads.


And by morning their slumber was replaced by the rain

As it poured and it thundered and fused a pool once again

So the nymph and her father dived in to cool azure

Neither of them a martyr, but survivors of the pure.


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