To My Captor
by Jack Cusack
I walked miles unsure
I would reach you. On my way
I got lost on some barren moors of heath. I stumbled
I fell, I wavered
through storms of trial; and
though uncertain I journeyed on until
I found myself caught
in your field, unprepared. Yet
I’m unwilling to leave. I trust
the pacific winds that push me to and fro
against the sides of your purple heather. To
you I offer the split strands of my will;
with dulled scythe in my hand I come
to berth and the sun settles
to its bed. Blackness falls
yet I do not quail, for I trust the soft voices
that stroll your field. You kindle the timbers of my soul
with your smouldering gaze. I linger
among the ambrosial trail of your hair. A zephyr carries me
to the sweet balmy lips of the evergreens
in front of me. I’m caught
in this blooming ballad
that the eternal voices have sown.
