One Last Love Song

Later Version


The woman I was yesterday
frets at the calendar's long chain
shrinking link by link towards
your next landfall, the fleet's return.
 
Feverish with waiting, she is numbed
by time's dull pendulum - moments
do not weigh the same; heartbeat
is no metronome - at any minute
she might hear familiar footsteps
on the porch, a doorbell, sending
lightning-voltage coursing -
(Will you be the same?) 

She stares out at the ocean - cold, grey,
melancholy adversary: on her horizon,
ships embarking, vessels looming
into port, gliding like giant albatross -
but not the one her spirit craves.
 
Long after you come ashore
the sea's aroma clings to you,
emanating from your skin,
permeating every pore…
She will imbibe that old,
familiar brine like gall,
and thirst for more…

As you voyage under Saturn's
iridescent peacock gaze,
or from the bridge observe
the moons of Jupiter, the woman
I've become of late stands watch
and learns to navigate,
rising before the Dog Star fades,
to chart a course through changing seas,
logging its progress phase by phase,
in words that daylight will erase...

***
 
Restless as the wind's voice in the eucalypts
I pace my room, leaving the tapestry
unfinished - hostage to the loom.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
Early Version   


The woman I was
yesterday
longs for your
return from the sea,
inhales its essence
from your fingers,
salt that lingers
on your skin,
until her thirst
becomes unquenchable.

That woman would give any-
thing to gauge the changes,
limb for limb, compare eye-
lashes, irises, the colours
of your hair in sun, and on wings
of insomnia, to roam night's wilderness
till dawn, discovering the secret,
private country of your body.

Today the woman I've become
sleeps less since her last
glimpse of you - distant,
inaccessible as Saturn,
never quite in view,
stalking the moon and stars
beneath the eye of Saggitarius;
fleeter than Pegasus; remote,
unknowable as Neptune.

More restless than Penelope
on Ithaka, I pace my room,
leaving the tapestry unfinished -
hostage to the loom.