Out of the wood two women came.

I saw two women come from the wood,
both looked evil and both looked good,
both of them glowing, black as pitch.
Mother and daughter, angel, witch -
and no way of telling which was which.
Mother or daughter,
lover, bitch,
both familiar with kiss and switch -
and no man knowing which was which.

Many a man had tried his luck -
Dumb cluck, Moonstruck. Ever the awe struck. -
for the whisper grew that the two were four.
The mother virago and paramour;
the daughter a shrew and one to adore.
Mother, lover,
harlot, amor
whatever one was, she wasn't before -
and no man living could keep the score.

One thing was clear as they came from the wood,
both were evil and both were good,
yet neither was either - so far as things stood.
What should man do, but return to the wood,
to the light of pitch, to the dayglow dark,
to the wood that for man is his friendly ark
where sun and moon rule all that there is -
each of itself its antithesis -
where that is ever a form of this?