Three Days
Like an excited child, I follow your hand
into a night-time heaven to see glow-worms.
Your torch lights my unsteady steps through
mud and slick leaves, and I recall a different
path, another day,
when I’d reflected on bright, pure water in a
riverbed far away: there were clouds about
my head, and white-tipped mountains rose
in front of me, behind me; dark branches
framed, like a cage.
I remember staring at the image, musing
the idea of ‘as above, so below’. That day,
the day before you, I had prayed that those
mountains were not quite so cold, and cruel;
unbearably lonely.
You stop, shut off the light and my eyes
adjust to magic. Suddenly the stars
above are so below and all around.
We float in an twinkling black grotto with
starry, earth-soaked walls.
The only reminders that I am not suddenly
suspended in the night sky are the
silhouette fronds framing overhead, the
caging sway of branches, and your kiss.
You have touched me
in so many ways, these last three days:
soothed me with the peace and calm of
a quiet man talking quietly and the
focused way you get on with what needs
to be done today;
nourished me with oysters shucked from their
shells on the beach, their slippery saltiness
erotic in my mouth - a reminder of a watched
clock. What is a respectable time
to go to bed?
Seduced me with music and strong skilled
fingers that play their tune on twelve strings,
and the growling poetry of Dylan. At night those
fingers played me like a guitar and, Love,
you made me music.
In the morning, I reflected on the cool lapping
water of the Sounds. Above me, below me, is blue;
around me the deep green of gentle, sloping hills.
There are no branches caging this day and I say
goodbye to mountains.
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