by Sylvia Plath:
Axes
after whose stroke the wood rings,
and the Echoes!
Echoes, travelling from centre like horses.
The sap wells like tears,
like the water striving
to re-establish its mirror
over the rock.
The drops and turns,
a white skull,
eaten by weedy greens.
Years later I encounter then on the road-
words dry and riderless
the indefatigable hoof-taps
while from the bottom of the pool,
fixed stars govern a life.