Two Poems

Go Gently

Avoid, if possible, the Lethal currents,
crowded ferry, the boatman
whose face is turned away,
fixed on destination.
Instead, choose West.

Approaching by an errant path,
sunlight here, shadow there,
you will find the dinghy waiting,
one or two like-minded souls aboard.

The boatman will be unhurried,
putting in at cove and inlet.
Spread a cloth for memory
of scones and tea. Sleep a little.
Remember books and songs,
a love's last touch.

Then board again.
In time, their outlines
will emerge from mist;
Isles of the Blest, no longer myth,
now anchorage, now home.

 

"The Birth of Mary"

Painted limewood sculpture, c. 1480. Master carver unknown.

At first glance, a Virgin and Child.
Closer, unheralded, unsung,
the swaddled infant Mary,
Anne, her mother, looking down,
peaceful, tired, nearing sleep,
one hand above her daughter,
the newly wakened face.

In this first hour,
there is no word
for separation, for time,
nothing but the space
between fingertips and cheek.

Knowing the future,
would we tell them?
No. Let them lie together,
enclosed, together, touched
only by each other.