Pan

I don’t at this moment see the flute 

but the horns are cornucopias.

He lay on a bank where willows grow

and the little ones whispered in awe.

Some paint him gross. He is elegant

though muscular, and larger than us.

I am looking at his picture on my desk,

planning where it will go on my altar.

He is a god of love in his own way,

sensual and wild, strong and tender.

He is the Nature we see around us

and also the earthy nature within us.

His full and shapely lips, his liquid eyes

and fine aquiline nose are distinctly Greek.

His pointed, fleshy ear, its whorls and folds,

indicate his animal hearing, acute.

He said he has come to this household

to take away our pain. We trust him for that.

I am no nymph but a Wise Woman,

yet his presence brings new fire to my lover.

Prompted by FormForAll - GHAZAL at dVerse

I realise, having read the comments on others' attempts, that this doesn't qualify as a ghazal — too linear in a couple of places, and every verse uses enjambment, which is a no-no. But I am pleased with the poem anyway, and will have fun practising the form.