behind you
and swiftly gaining

is the lady with
the moon in her hair,

cool eyes which reflect
a constant stillness.

you have not yet learned
that she is hungry for you,

for the sweeter parts
she scents beneath the white.

her motion towards you
is the patient unmoving stare

of the cat you remember
from long childhood rooms

when you wished to be a Celt
with the spear and golden hair.

your mother was angry
followed you with accusing eyes

that asked always an impossible
question of you, desired you to be

the blood red apple, unbitten.