Pan is in the Wood

Pan is in the wood
And she heard him,
Though he is dead:
Yes, what’s dead in her heard him;

There’s evil, good
And something grim
Life leaves unsaid
Somewhere in the dead god’s hymn.

On the Bridge

On the bridge between here and there
Is an out of place little man
With a tambourine,
Shaking it to his delight.

And why not? The weather is fair
And the prodigious span
Of the bridge would be too serene
Were he elsewhere this night.

The Look of Light

The look of light on the face of the water
Rosy light—mingling with the deep,
Dashes, and darts, and breaks
Like a soldier in a slaughter
That doesn’t weep
Till he wakes.

But the face of the water itself:
That face weeps.

— Michael Shindler is a writer living in Washington, DC. His work has been published in outlets including The American Conservative, Church Life, University Bookman, Jacobite, and New English Review. Follow him on Twitter: @MichaelShindler.