What are you doing
that I can’t be?
What is it occupies your thoughts of me?
Who stands in the light that
both shadows dancing in the flames?
Where can you be now
that I won’t see?
What longings are seeping deliberately?
Who finds them and binds
both shadows melting in the flames?
Your fingertip is touching fire,
is that you for me?
When I can no longer feel it, you reach for me,
like the fire atop the tallow’s
both shadows make candlelight’s flames.
Such warmth you possess in a fingertip’s caress,
holding my courage for me, a courage plainly at rest.
Gentle longing inside is held in the dimness
of secret wants and sheer, naked truths,
only the light of a much greater torch,
the admiration for such a warm and tender man,
makes a halo for my secret yearnings,
and it shines on them so I can see your face.
Such strength and compassion is in your soul’s undress;
self-possessed and postured, no unease or unrest.
Gentle strokes of reassurance hiding in the dimness
of a darkened night’s passionate hope
are felt and ignited by a greater force;
the love for such a kind and graceful man
that burns deeply and so intensely
incinerating the ghosts so that I can kiss your face.
Such urgent words when called won’t come,
they wander alone now, bereft of tongue.
Gentle feelings flood the parchment’s dimness,
and its dry, course surface until softened
by the silent voice of mind and heart;
the inexhaustible need for such a man,
will write what my words cannot hope to say
and make pages turn when we at last embrace.
The shallow draught
of a flat bottomed
open skiff drifts alone,
moving with its shadow
onto the vitreous water;
vying with the spirits that pour
across the bay.
As moonlight dresses them
they are reanimated –
they would provoke our eyes
and enliven our dreams.
From square behind to pointed bow
the small vessel becomes full
with the company of twilight and
of water flecked salty winds
that cause the well turned
knotted oars to creak –
bangled cuffs take the strain
of their lifeless posturing
as they languish half hidden
in the hyaline polish of the water –
a jailer to its hostages:
roots anchored securely,
the shaded petiole
that bend too easily with the shining
plant’s shafts straddle the muted
cries of a multitude of birds
percolating through and the insects
dancing with the yellow
veils of lamplight
fastened to posted arms.
Bawling from the tirade
of flocking travellers,
setting sights on home
permeates the eerie echoes
they create – agitated wings
cause a draught to wrestle
with the duckweed
also festooning the flower
of this spectre’s lawn.
The small vessel steers unaided
towards the Cattails and reeds
growing along the shoreline’s
covered stones; back to back,
beautiful in their lacustrine
tranquillity – moss
each of them -nature’s embankment
an overcrowded edge soaks it up
and the cloying,
the small boat passes
and comes serenely to a stop
at the figure
arising from the lake.
Faint sounds from startled peachicks
escaping, amid shifts of hazel,
Vaporous air wraps her feet;
tiny water droplets suspended
make the ceiling to her underwater home –
greater reasons beckoned her awake
from the sands and sediments
of her grief –
awake from the night’s silence
and to set sail.
Moonlight and all else vacates
the small space – she takes
and steers gently through
the ghosted night.