The wet work of Darwin hides the network of all things;
the dead drops of autumn and the sleeper-cell of spring,
splitting its green atom and spreading its green code;
the safehouse of your heart where the future will be stored.
You will meet her in the woodlands;
cryptic blackbird in her hair.
Give her love and light and water;
the true altar will appear.
You will meet her by the station,
disguised as a homeless man.
Give him kindness, smiles and silver;
an oak will grow from his hand.
Then the green ops of Opis* will open themselves to you;
“oneness” is their watchword, every kindness is a coup.
Dark disinformation shed; winters cover blown;
Proserpine, underground queen, will return to her throne.
*Opis= ancient goddess of fertility