On Sundays before you rise
to the murmur of ancient God-call,
before a thousand pilgrims plummet
cows graze uphill against the grain
and as mountain swelters in shadow
the last lynx growls in the trees.
Gion and Gulio guzzle beer hot
even in the swell of lukewarm summer.
In this hidden valley night crawls
you still find the lost snow of Caesars,
the pit that held a hundred angry Celts
roaring at shin-yapping hounds and
bleeding spikes thick as arm-wrestlers.
He enters the shrubbery pelted
without a single thought of blood,
for the taste of lichens and wild crowberries.
You turn to face me in the dark earth
of your precious skin,
a fine golden weed of hair like Cassandra
and ask me gently to let the wolves in.
Marc Vincenz is of Swiss-British descent, was born in Hong Kong, and worked in China for many years. More recently based out of Iceland, he writes a featured column for The Reykjavik Grapevine, Iceland’s
English language newspaper. His poetry has appeared, or is forthcoming in various journals, including: Poetry Salzburg Review, MiPoesias, Nth Position, Poets and Artists, the nervous breakdown and Right Hand Pointing. He is currently putting the finishing touches on two collections of poetry, and a spoken-word CD.