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Sylvan Tryst
On the gentle clover meadow
by the rushing sunlit waters
of the river Tabusintac
stood the young brave Matou-polchies,
cast his net out on the deep pool,
hoping to ensnare the salmon.
Soon the bright fish rose to Matou
as its flanks shone quick and silver,
suffered to be drawn up on shore,
gave its life up on the cobbles,
writhing spinning twisting gasping,
swiftly mounted on the fire spit.
As the regal fish was cooking
on the campfire’s gleaming embers,
Matou saw the alders tremble
on the edges of the meadow.
Lightly taking up his hatchet,
Matou crept into the bushes,
every sinew coiled and ready
to repel the vile intruder.
Suddenly the alders parted
and into the sunlight entered
Malabionna, MicMac maiden.
Raven tresses glinting softly,
mischief sparkling in her dark eyes,
holding in the folds of her skirt
mushrooms and green ferns unopened
to add to their streamside banquet.
As the sun sloped to the treeline
feasted Matou, Malabionna,
watched the stars light up the heavens,
as the weaving streaming curtains
ebbed and flowed among the creatures
ever dwelling where the Great One
banished them to hunt each other
in the forest of the night sky.
As the embers slowly faded
and the stars wheeled high above them,
the two young ones became lovers,
shared their passions in the clover,
giving taking showing leading,
waiting grasping looking seeing,
yielding gently yet respecting,
for their love was just beginning.
As the waves of passion faded,
Matou slipped into deep slumber.
In his dreams her soft voice whispered,
“I must go back to my father
ere the sun’s rays touch the treetops.
When the spring breeze spins the green leaves
of the aspen and the alder,
listen for me in the rustling.
Look for me between the branches.
I will always be your true love.”
