"And they stretched out
their hands in desire of the further shore."
Not much to look at, maybe. Dog-ears,
Blotches, one of those satisfying
Spinal curvatures (the complexion
Of achieved
purpose),
With metal prongs stabbed
through
The coverlet of plain-sky-blue.
Plain, that is, but for the
blinking glint
Of gold: the label alive (as an
actor's eye)
When it catches the light.
Imagining some Grecian scholar
I delve into the ruffled leaves
-
Survey the assemblance of
wisdom:
'The Invention of Love'.
The first page hangs - an
extended dove -
And falls with a snug-winged
nestle.
Corrections, arrows, cuts,
additions.
Lift, hiatus, drift and fall.
Parched
Yellow highlightings (the
ripeness garnered),
A tea-stain fleck, electric
glow - and lift,
Hiatus, drift and fall. The kiss
Of each leaf on soft-lipped
leaf, reciprocal.
(Stop)
An envelope.
Empty. Autumnal. Preserved
Like a petalled-butterfly,
pressed -
Embalmed in its chrysalis.
Touch skin on flattened skin.
The air.
Shiver. Wing-ruffle. Escapage
Of dust, and a flutter of
fragrance:
The scent of invention, reborn.
This was his 'line-learner' -
Companion in those days
Of gestation:
A drifting eclipse on the rounds
Of his fingers. Their together-scroll
From line to line like the moon
Back-peeling the folds of the
sun,
Or the teasing reveal of the
turning earth.
His brown-winged Skipper.
I conjure a flash of your eye in
the dust,
In the caves of that Stygian
gloom. Charon,
Ferryman: God of the
silver-tongues, God
Of the Underworld.
You've got to admit it has
gravitas.
On page eighty-five you have
branded a note:
"Hold out hand"
Hold out hand?
Soft in my palms is a tremble of
wings:
Lift, hiatus, drift and fall.
--
Into the fog
I am reaching, reaching -
Reaching into the fog.
Distant and dim, but approaching,
Encroaching: a beacon
Encroaching: a beacon
Beams back from the
night.
A paddle of waves
And a rippling slosh.
Then a bow, and a belly of wood.
An oar balanced over his shoulder,
His face in a drizzle of light.
A standstill crunch of skiff on
sand.
Hold out hand. Hold out hand.
The candle flame quivers.
There is crystal in his eyes.
There is crystal in his eyes.
--
May these lines be my passage,
My obolus into the mist -
And row me over to that bank
Of eglantine.
