A Woman in Winter
I knew it when the moon
lingered over the bandstand
like a hot-air balloon
lost in the dark,
firing its engines
for one last breath.
I sat between the leaves
and I felt the earth beat
hard against itself,
its skin as tight as a drum
wound to the point
where the skin begins to snap.
And I know it now:
the night before the new journey
undertaken into the dark,
with nothing known of the journey’s end:
save that the voyage is long;
and the ship
never leaves the dock.
But either way,
I will be on board.
Amongst you:
but never becoming you.
Raising my glass:
but never drinking my fill.
Born with it:
a seed that refused to grow,
only lingered
as the perfume of a dead woman
lingers in the bedroom of a drunk
fifty years in his cups:
and still finding
nothing to regret.
Well then;
I shall endure.
Look back,
if it pleases you.
But the dark
is cold and beautiful,
as I imagine
the long white neck
of a woman in winter
must be.
Pulse on pulse
in a darkness
only dreams endure.
And still I can be there
with you:
waiting to watch you home,
the invisible stranger
turning his head at the lights,
that you might not
glance at his face
and find you no longer
remember his name.
Page(s) 20-21
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