Fotopoesía (VII)

I went out to the hazel wood,
because a fire was in my head,
and cut and peeled a hazel wand,
and hooked a berry to a thread;
and when white moths were on the wing,
and moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
and caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
but something rustled on the floor,
and someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
with apple blossom in her hair.
Who called me by my name and ran
and faded through the brightening air?

Though I am old with wandering
through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
and kiss her lips and take her hands;
and walk among long dappled grass,
and pluck till time and times are done,
the silver apples of the moon,
the golden apples of the sun.