Dust

A Thyrsus was a staff topped with a pine cone, carried by disciples of Dionysus/Bacchus

I sit and admire the evening light glissading through dust,
Making the motes flicker like fine golden spray.
I picture ivy-strewn walls, old manors at dusk
Recalling their ghosts through vacant hallways.
I see a casement open to wide glowing fields, a book
Of Arcadian poems resting on its warm cushioned lip;
A herder sighs and gazes, resting on his crook;
A traveller in shade finds his water skin and sips.
The pine cone tumbles from his thyrsus and becomes
A simple walking stick, dropped beside the road.
He looks at it and laughs through wine-soaked gums,
Languishes an hour, then leaves without a load.
Singing all the while, till a mile on he meets
The wistful end of Fancy, where dust falls down in sheets.