‘The Dryads’: A Poem by Patricia Rogers Crozier

The Dryads

The day we found the hoof-prints in the soil
And felt the breath of dark, indolic heat,
We dropped our implements of rustic toil
And took the path marked by the cloven feet.
The fields were newly garlanded in green,
Swathed in the uncorrupted redolence
Of Springtime, delicately perched between
Fecundity and frigid impotence.
The forest rose up, threatening and high.
We stepped across the threshold of the wild,
To find our senses overpowered by
A melody that beckoned and beguiled.
Into the forest’s heart, lost in a trance,
We hurried, thinking not how far or long.
Unknowingly, our steps became a dance,
Bound tightly to the rhythm of that song.
We wandered in the ancient woods alone,
Possessed by haunting music, barely heard
But beautiful and flawless in its tone,
Beyond the voice of man or beast or bird.
The forest shimmered as the day awoke,
With dew-drops shivering on bough and stem,
As emeralds shimmer down a lady’s cloak,
From gilded brooch to swaying velvet hem.
The silver notes flung at us on the breeze,
Shed from that far-off, scintillating strain,
Became a torrent flowing through the trees,
Sweet-voiced, as sings the sunlit summer rain.
A veil of leaves abruptly drew apart,
To guide us down into a sun-drenched glade,
Into the forest’s ancient, glowing, heart,
From whence that shining melody was played.
And there we found the ancient Hornéd One,
Enthroned amidst the bells and lady’s slips,
Bedappled by wind-shadows in the sun,
The haunting song piped sweetly on his lips.
How quickly he sprang up as we drew nigh!
We froze there, gazing on his countenance.
So strange, and yet familiar as the sky,
The fields, the woods—all Nature’s great expanse.
He met us where we stood in mute surprise,
Beneath the sweet, unfurling wreaths of oak.
He searched our faces with his glowing eyes,
And touched our burning brows but never spoke.
Still, with his other hand, he carried on
The piping that had called so urgently,
Until we found our inhibitions gone,
The stupor lifted and our spirits free.
He saw his horns reflected in our eyes,
The thrill awakening, the ravishment.
He shook his tufted tail and wooly thighs,
He took our hands and up, away we went,
The three of us, to dance, cavort, and play,
‘Twixt sunbeams and deep, cooling pools of shade,
To scoff at winter’s distant, cold decay.
We reveled, free of guilt and unafraid,
In Springtime, in our lust and heartiness—
The things that fade as seasons pass away,
Whose fading should be laughed at nonetheless,
Before all mirth is lost in yesterday.
Then nightfall came, so suddenly, so soon.
The woods filled with the soft, pulsating light
Of glow-worms, and the stars, and crescent moon,
The airy flutterings of moths in flight.
The shadows of our heated bodies swayed
Across the drapings of our verdant bed.
And in the shadow-world we saw displayed,
A twisted pair of horns upon each head.

Patricia Rogers Crozier has been published in The Washington Post. She holds a B.S. in Physics from Mississippi College. She resides in Gulf Breeze, Florida and works at Publix. She is the winner of the 2024 SCP International Poetry Competition.