Again we approach the edge;
Again we are saved from falling.
It is like a slow dance, played out
Over several years.

It seems at once surreal and
Perfectly natural, implausible
And yet inevitable. She makes me
A poet again, revitalising my words
As I had accepted their decline.

The rain from which I hid
Returns to my memory, and
Suddenly everything is connected:
The words form a spiral that
Grows from my reawakened heart
To fill the temperate summer sky.

It has never truly gone away;
Merely lain dormant, awaiting
The next radiant dawn.

Each word begins an adventure,
A journey into the unknown,
The destination a mystery until
I reach the bottom of the page.

There are spears and there are shields;
Stars and clouds, windows and walls.
This continues beyond all of
These things, colouring the world,
Permeating even the smallest cracks
As it spreads exponentially.

It comes to me when I least expect it,
Amusing, bemusing, elating, frustrating.
The words feel like they are not mine
And I know they are not: they are
A gift from her, and they will
Always be hers.

08/11/2015

Posted on 09/22/2015
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince