79.

The dead stars rise over the ridge, the garden

Tumultuous with texture, colour, the taste

Of pollen: nose, throat, eye all absorb

The lusting dust of spring. Something austere

Might move this blood and skin, resolve

Into a dew, a suspiration

Of a love that would endure past youth,

Beyond the gate that opens out on to

The sea. Can we be more than air

A breath not presumed or transposed

Into a record, a trace, a pledge

That would outlast the smallness of our hands?

I have a longing for you after all these years

And you most times nearby: these lips an orchard?