Ian Caws
The Leave-Taking
It was still dark when they stood in chapel
And votive candles spat at each other.
“It was the dance at the centre of all
Things,” he said, “or at least it appeared so.”
But she wouldn’t tie him any further
To her words. Before the birds sang he’d go.
In a world of metaphor, perhaps he
Hadn’t understood her plainness. The light
Touched her from too many angles maybe.
But he’d been left standing on the far edge
Of something, or of himself, and she’d wait
Until the doorway rubbed out his image.
On the quay, his eyes like floating night lights
Saw God’s doodling on the sky. And he knew
Its absence would have left neurosis. “It’s
A world that’s stopped breathing,” he said. And the
Boat ripped the river like a snooker cue,
Balancing sunrise and coming weather.
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