Pool

There is a pool, deep in the forest.
Its crystal eye mirrors the moon.
By day, it wears the colours of sky:
teal, cataract-white, slate-grey.
Detritus embroiders the surface:
scarred leaves, traceries of dust.
As the wind breathes, it glints and brims.
If you go near this pool, the waters
roil and part: a great arm rises
to seize you, drag you down. It has plucked
hunters and hounds from air; could plunge
into bubbling oblivion
all the king's horses, king's men.
A traveller enters the forest;
that fist clutches and drowns his dog.
He scoops every drop from the pool,
descends through layers of mud.
A man lies in the depths: an image
stuck to the socket of an eye.
His skin is rusty iron, black hair
shrouds him so he sees nothing
clearly — can only grip, then drown.
Hauled into searing light, he's trussed
with rope, trundled off to the palace.