As you imagined me, I came
to you, near as the sound of an owl
in the clearing, then nearer,
my eyes two moons, one holding
the gaze of another, silver
under an olive leaf—bridle,
bit, chariot, ship, the water chinning
the scant prow, shearwater
splitting the gold waves.
Spirit-bubble, I held your own beam
level and then squared it, a kite
that dove among the islands,
chasing its own tail of light that
left only its leavings, as autumn
scatters summer when it
arrives. Near to the shore, linen
beat to my breath on the bank,
near to the fields, wool
caught on the brambles where
the sheep ate from my hand
but you drew back! Then
I knew to draw nearer, and nearer
still—and draw, us two together
on the table’s compass flower,
a lure pulled through the storm’s
pale eye like a thread that reins
a needle’s stride, the weft
disguised, a beggar’s life line crossed
by a silver track, a snail’s reversing
journey back, the sails
laundry on a broomstick mast
that like a weathercock veers
until it meets fair weather:
your near hand, held fast
in mine. You, beloved,
though not I, grow old.
