Anam Cara

IMAGINED ORIGINS

For M.

Nothing between us, so near

I hear your skin whisper

What you could never tell

Of the longing that called us.

How through the branches

On to the clay beneath the oak,

A lace of light came down

To wait and watch each day,

And the secrecy of the breeze,

Dying down over the shiver

In the earth, hovering there

To blend its voice to breath,

How, even then, the rain

Through the brow of grasses

Could foreshadow tears

And the trickle of water change,

Or the fright of crows from trees

At dusk into the empty paleness,

This rush of black words today

Searching for you on the white page.