Mistletoe

Did Lancelot, in love, believe in mistletoe

as ancients plucked green tendrils from the apple trees?

What Druid missel-thrush crushed seed into the bark,

beaking viscous pips in crannies, future treasure

for autumn levity when ivory berries burst;

sure grist for lovers in their pale profusion.

Worshipped through medieval palls of witchery,

when golden sickles sliced these parasites from oaks -

it wins our hearts with covert kisses now-a-days,

but shops sell dear in cities with no missel-thrush,

and forays into country lanes are often few,

yet mistletoe, so timeless, so enchanted, will

resist the ages, cast its spell

so that I can whisper - ‘More meo - I love you’.