by Jonathan Cant

after ‘The Road Not Taken’ by Robert Frost

Along forgotten forest ways
There’s Dionysus in prior form.
That holy calf of Thracian days—
I’m held within his ghostly gaze,
The god who was by Titans torn.

Upon that fateful, mythic ride,
My soul ascends the wooded range.
Just like his wing-heeled brother guide,
He points the way then steps aside
And strands me on a mountain strange.

What vivid vistas from the hill—
The distant cascade’s stream of white.
His nephew’s pipes pervade the still
And haunt the valley with their shrill
While Echo flees in fading light.

The misty peaks above me rise,
While rivers dance far down below.
Ecstatic hint of something wise.
For Him the wedge-tail eagle flies
And in my veins His vintage flows.