Fleeing birds mass the night.
The spirals and veering are an audible gyre,
passing overhead and gone,
a giant’s cloak dragged across the rooftops.
Comus is come down to the edge of the wood,
lynx-eyes, panther-eyes a fan of fire.
Mortals huddle in their blacked-out village,
breath caught at each new hoof-slap
on the thatch above their heads.
Comus calls to them, each syllable rounded as flute-silver.
His music floats and falls, light as a net,
calling each boy, each girl,
to slip the mud walls and ease themselves from rags,
naked in the summer night.
He promises them the silver of moonlight,
the gold of torchlight on their drugged and dancing bodies.
Zither and conch, hands twining loosened hair,
fingers fluttering in air,
drawn to the warmth of themselves, Comus’ flute
enticing them to join the stretch and curve of swimmers
already naked in the grass. Lynx-moan and
panther-cry, the drumbeat of girls’ heels on boys’ backs.
Comus promises them one night or many nights,
his long-nailed fingers gentle on the backs of their heads
as he presses their lips to the goblet’s luscious spill.
Those who drink lightly will be ruined, those who drink deep
will be lost, and Comus moves among them smiling,
his brimming goblet never empty.