Actaeon and Diana

Tip-toe
taut
as a drawn bow
is Actaeon
acting on instinct
leaving the hunt
bowing out
from his man-eating hounds.

Behind him the kill
the blood spill the thrill 
of the chase.
Forsaking them all
and all for the sake
of a soft
warmer shape
a quite different scent
an incense
a worshipful sense
which he finds
more alluring.

But none of this yet
is a physical kick
not an earthly bouquet
not an essence of flesh
and wild flowers.

The senses are making no sense.
An ether has entered his head
a virtual tease
something to please 
an old god.
So Actaeon stumbles along
lost in the forest
and lost in mind.

Soon in his head
the odour is joined
by a sound.
Water is  falling
somewhere around:
water like laughter
and laughter like water -
there's water and laughter
falling together,
their volumes and sounds 
buried deep in each other.

Think of him now 
as a stem 
in the dark underbelly 
of earth.
Think of him blind,
in the sway of a force 
that controls half the mind,
leads him on
to a light that
as yet he can't see. 

But now he's the force
as he forces a way
through the thick undergrowth
with the strength of a man
out of touch.

Such a force, he breaks through
as he hacks at thick vines
to be blinded again
in a quite different way
by a light that engulfs,
near swamps, his brain.

Vision and sight and light ever-
lasting at last!
A switch has been thrown. 
The change is from inner
to earthly encounter.

The laughter 
like water
spills from plump nymphs
attending their goddess,
Diana the virgin,
the huntress who bathes
in water like laughter.

Cascades all around
replenish the pool
with its rocks like a throne
on which she reclines
as naked as any rock
he's ever known.

The nymphs 
crowd their queen,
attempting to screen from 
his gaze what must not be seen.

Too late!
His eyes have locked on
with a gaze that
she feels like an arrow.
The arrow she fires in return
is a missile that robs him of speech.
How else to protect
the secrets he's seen,
the mysteres locked
in her nakedness?
He's condemned 
to a life without speech
a silence profound
and beyond that endured
by many a monk
or anchorite.

Now Actaeon plays along well,
believes he can 
yet beat the curse,
plays it dumb - 'til the sound
of the hunting horn reaches his ears
and impulse wins out.
He responds with his call -
then bites his tongue.
Too late, yet again:
the sad deed is done.
 
For Actaeon now 
all action 
flows out of remorse.
He runs through the forest
to melt in the trees
and rejoin the hunt.
Diana's ill humour
has followed him there.

Thirsty, he stoops 
to drink from a brook
sees in the water,
reflected from him,
half- human, half-finished
a stag's head with antlers
with streaks here and there
of the way that one day
humanity might be washed out. 
He watches 
more changes take place.

Startled at first,
he composes himself,
then stands 
like a stag on four feet
as the hounds fall 
upon him,
drawing blood by the pint.
They have not seen 
in the half-and-half beast
their old lord and leader. 
They tear at his flesh.
His heart, lungs and gut,
eyes, face and tongue,
are shredded
devoured
or strewn on the ground.