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’.
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