A Brief History Of Romance
Love, my lexicon, greys into midnight
the stars misted in their heaven, the raw
of your face remembering sunsets,
the talent of the sky reddened
at least until nightfall.
Now I hold the wild of my life in my hand,
not a burden, but something feral as if the world
had changed, fetching precocious moments
that touch everything.
And I cannot call your name, the last moment gone,
a brief walk into romance that wedded nothing,
mended nothing leaving a trail of history
that has more to say for itself than the weary
chant of names achieving little.
Did I tell you this before?
Your face now is the colour of thunder,
your eyes the lightning that comes first,
a bold attribute of grief turned cold
as it would cancelling memories
that could not stand the test of time.
Now into the blind carcass of noon we fall,
resurrecting dreams, resurrecting all kinds
of things, the last moment spoken
before we begin, the wild eye of circumstance
that would disburse the world, counting favours,
the last moments of recompense affording truth.
And where have you been my little one,
and what have you seen? Troublesome moments,
articles of faith that have us locked together
always, my mouth on yours, a fumbling of hands
as the earth turns without wisdom, catching
our moments of disbelief that would savage
a history, locking away smiles that could have
been treasures, our smiles dispersed, nothing
left now save memories that come and go
sounding the moments that could have been,
the travel of the selected through this world
favouring happiness along the way.
Love, my lexicon, smiles down dispassionately,
something far too new to know about now,
the blister of the wind creaking in the door,
the eyes of truth unburdening themselves,
the last look of living done as we catch
the mirrors of one another's eyes,
the last word spoken, the last word gone
as though the image of a language could compensate
these moments of approval registering calm.
If you've any comments on his poem, John
Cornwall would be pleased to hear