There was a story once, about a girl so in love, and so confused, that even though the man she adored was near her every day,
Years and years went by before, one day, she found herself beside him and, even though she was tattered from the heavy seas of her life, and knew the sails of that great adventure had long since passed… she bridled up her leaping heart and found the courage to speak.
Strangely enough, he knew all about her.
He knew how many trees lined the path to her door. He knew how the river curled around her house, and how, every September a Pegasus would crash out to sea from the beautiful wilds of the lovely Hacking River, shaking her windows and churning her heart.
He told her that all of life was chance after chance to learn to die.
He said the greatest gift of any story was to learn to lose oneself completely. He said, not only grief, but sweetness passes – so live tender, and above all things, drink deeply of love’s great cup. Life is not for ever, it is for learning that great beauty; of risking all for love, and being able still to let it go.
This is a poem for the one she dared love next.
under a tree,
turning a stone
with his square fingers.
soaking up the moss, the lichen,
damp secrets of the storied ground
to compose into bouquets
for his quiet
under the sun,
blades of gold
upon his lovely shoulders,
as clouds compose their petticoats
into pouts and thigh and tender curves
across the broad dune of his back.
A little bird
through a frame of living wood,
holding its breath
The little bird
all its feathers recomposed.
It tilts its tiny brown head
to one side lightly
a view of him
with lace of web and pretty dew.
quiet as feathers,
grows large for one sweet moment
and then explodes
into a firework