Even
the wind had a different taste on my lips
When
you told me that you loved me.
Even
if you never said the words.
I
was parched for I had run such a long way,
From
Athens and Katmandu actually.
I
drank the words from your mouth
And
I was soothed, and I was appeased.
I
thought I knew the colour of the wind,
You
made every shade of it fresh and new.
I
tasted life and love and hate and jadedness
And
quietude and solace in the time of catastrophe.
I
didn’t know I was to meet you on this day.
I
thought it would be a normal day,
Just
like any other in this long sequence of days.
But
when I woke up things had changed,
All
by themselves, their hues were sharper.
The
milk and cereals suggested transmogrification.
The
orange juice was blue in the glass.
Those
are unmistakeable signs that love is born.
The
first words you spoke to me were:
“There’s
a stone like a mountain in my shoe,
And
this there horse is sure badly shod too.”
“I’ve
seen turtles more thinly clad,” I replied.
“Crickey,
that’s a bull’s eye if ever I saw one.”
“Mockingbird
on the barn, raven in the rye.”
That
was at the start of day,
Which
together we spent,
We
held hands after five paces.
That’s
when I learnt to read your words and your silences.
You
read the halt in my gait and my scars.
Even
my long-time favorite crumpets
Lost
their lure when you left me, for the night.
You
had to go home for some reason I didn’t understand.
Even
my enemies lost their sheen,
Even
the stars looked dull and the mail serious
And
the music soporific and the rest grey.
Imperious
was the desire to follow you,
Even
if this meant to travel to the back of the map.
The
sea reminded me of your eyes,
The
moon the opposite reflection of your pupils,
The
clouds the wisps of hair on your shoulders.
And
then morning came, exact and keen.
And
your words rang like swords in my hands.
I
tackled the world like a charging bull.
I
scoured islands and coves and caves
And
isthmuses and tundras, looking for you,
For
traces of you. I followed your scent and
The
silences you had left across the landscapes.
For
between your silences I heard your words.
Those
words meant freedom and cups of tea
And
heaven in a handbasket; they meant
Crepes
on a sunday morning and
Hot
chocolate in the afternoon
And
walking on disused railtracks
And
sleepless nights shooting northern lights.
I
arrived on the brink of the known world,
Eager
to find and embrace you, at long last.
That’s
when I received your postcard.
I
hastened home with all speed.
You
were waiting for me on my doorstep.
In
the distance I could see your lips
Moving,
moving
I
knew the words.
Then
as I moved closer I saw your lips
Motionless, motionless,
I
knew the silences.
They
birthed more hope than I hoped for.
Then
you didn’t say something which made me stop.
Some
things are better left said, or done, or both.
But
you kept on not saying it.
You
would’ve watched the world burn
Had
you not found me.
Sadness
paints everything grey.
Love
on the run dyes every thing ecru.
I
finally reached you and looked down at your shoes:
You
were barefoot. I was still limping.
Yet
there was the back of a map to be charted.
We
set the badly-shod horse free
And
he let us ride him. He was faster than lightning.
You
murmured something which the wind took.
Mayhap
that was an elaborate silence
Which
said something that had not yet been said, ever.
You
were so bold I wouldn’t wonder.
We
shot through the degrees and minutes,
Arrived
on the border where both light and darkness hover.
That’s
when you worded the silence I’ll never forget
And
silenced the words I’ll ever remember.
We
were on the mark too.
