Sonnet to Christ

From nether worlds the archer now ascends

The mound of evening through a tracery

Of waking forms. In measured walk he bends

His great bejeweled bow unerringly

With aim at Draco's heart, the scheming core

Of darkness. Viciously, across the sky

The serpent strikes, and so defends a store

Of treasure hoarded long in gloom. Stung by

The venomed fangs, the hunter falls in grief,

Yet hurls upon the louring fastness in the height

A shaft all shimmering, and slays the thief,

The ancient one who generates the night.

In somber wreathes, in shadows of dismay,

The stars portend inevitable day.



c. 1984 (revised)