A Dream Sestina

dreamed late 1950s? by Donald Justice

I woke by first light in a wood Right in the shadow of a hill And saw about me in a circle Many I knew, the dear faces Of some I recognized as friends. I knew that I had lost my way. I asked if any knew the way. They stared at me like blocks of wood. They turned their backs on me, those friends, And struggled up the stubborn hill Along that road which makes a circle. No longer could I see their faces. But there were trees with human faces. Afraid, I ran a little way But must have wandered in a circle. I had not left that human wood; I was no farther up the hill. And all the while I heard my friends Discussing me, but not like friends. Through gaps in trees I glimpsed their faces. (The trees grow crooked on that hill.) Now all at once I saw the way. Above a clearing in the wood A lone bird wheeling in a circle, And in that shadowed space the circle Of those I thought of still as friends. I drew near, calling, and the wood Rang, and they turned their deaf faces This way and that, but not my way. They rose and danced upon the hill. And it grew dark. Behind the hill The sun slid down, a fiery circle. Screeching, the bird flew on its way. It was too dark to see my friends. But then I saw them, and their faces Were leaning above me like a wood. Round me they circle on the hill. But what is wrong with my friends' faces? Why have they changed that way to wood?