Rapunzel

Far below her, the lake:
beyond depth at its centre.
At dawn, her stone-framed face;
hair spread out in darkness.
Gold fumes above misted pines,
scrolls over the lake, finds her.
All morning, bronze enters her hair,
her cheeks grow amaryllis apples;
the forest's shadow is a meniscus
round that great brimming tear.
As she steps from noon's glare,
a keyplate of light slides down her
from brow to belly.
Now, dusk's glittering shroud…
Pines fill the lake, their darknesses
masked by green crystal.
She sits weaving her strength
into a braid, thinking:
Whatever has happened, or will happen,
the lake is there, and the tower
dwells in me, and I within it:
a key hidden inside a lock.
She watches the wind's fingers
trawl a nap on silver velvet,
unsettle then recompose
the snow-blue spruces.