Here where the scent of heather blows fine cascades of kisses to meet the fresh dew, I search for you though you cannot be found.
My heart is standing basalt, aching with the thaw of winter’s end. The pale wanning of solstice echoes in a spasm within this numb frame.
You are gone my love, where no pike or javelin may graze such fairness of head or keenness of limb. The poem of your breath is fading, spent in its power to call the vessel of my weary mind to harbour.
A kiss for you. Another. Brush of lip caresses an eyelid, invoking a smile but alas, the wind is my only lover.
Arms that held sinew and flesh now hang free in weave once distilled of its mire by your hands. Oh, for the divine slavery of our union to once more bless these rags with your toil.
This day I stood, awash with the noise and spray of the whale roads before me, to search the edge of the word for a sign of your sail. It was not revealed.
The stone is bare and smooth, there where the ancient pull of earth and these feeble soles have joined in devotion so often.
©Justyn Rowe. June 13,1999