Martin Corless-Smith
The Evening of a Faun

Memories of an unread book.

Come join me more quietly. My days of chasing are past.

For the evening we will accept what we find—in the way of music and repast.

Some unearthed truffles, mountain garlic and a fowl or two.

Turn away from the breeze for shelter—and the playing of pipes.

A little preparation and reparation, and the earth nest is readied—the stubborn root knot patted with mud—the leaves piled readily.

The music is from our childhood and before. A nameless tune we learned before memory.

There might come dancers. And if they do we must let them be. If they do not we must watch the trees dance—and obey the still evening ourselves.

My nature has changed. My companions a few and I have little now to say to them.

That which they know they will recognize—that which they do not they will not. I need not offer the world to my fellow fauns.

The sound of water is our companion heart. It rains a little but our beards are greased.

Everything is an omen for everything will happen.