Sonnet #42 on the Greenman
He hides among the stories past, but now
he has no name, with stonied face he laughs
or scowls, or smiles, or frowns, or cries. Who knows
what mood is carved by ancient cunning crafts?
The wintered face of death after the fall
The brambled, twisted, tortured crown of thorns
will gently resurrect at springtime’s call
with vestal bud and festive flowered horns
but then from jamb post lustily explodes
From foliate frieze the summer greens wrap round
and high above the narthex harvest loads
his juicy fruits upon the stirring crowd
he has no name and yet he wears the crown
of life and death and birth upon his brow
