It is as if
we are walking along a headland
(of emerald green cliffs, under an azure blue sky,
aside an aquamarine ocean below yellow-orange rock
bespeckled with silvering strata and flintiness)
you holding my hand and saying, “walk on the edge”
me tiptoeing on the knife-point of it
at 45 degrees to your simmering horizon
suddenly smiling at me and whispering, “trust me”
no longer anchoring me down
but singing to the clouds in Gaelic
stopping holding on to yourself
just letting go of the ages
and jumping over with me
recklessly (for it is in you … the Eve)
with the time standing still like glacier
falling as slow and as easy as leaves and raindrops
into the deep warm shimmering water
us falling lazy like an old tree
and forever caught in the never-ending passion
of … Necessity.
We roll in the surf
laughing out loud to mermaids and coral
crying ‘freedom’ and diving
forgetting we have fallen from grace like wild cormorants.
One night soon, alas,
(you are ever the morrow)
I know that the moon will stop smiling
on marionettes and sailboat masts
and far too late for sensibilities and an occasional thanks
your tide will be out
and I shall be falling alone
into the great unknown pool
of fatalists.
I shall dive before you
to the Beltane fires raging coldly
on the clifftops of your soul
where your smile brings slow hope
and an irrationality
where standing laughing at me you say by the Beltane fire,
“that man was doomed …
with damned hope and his wild Adamic desire”.
In my watery waning grave
I hear Providence shout,
“I shall forgive you for everything
continually
if her tide stays out.”