She always took the lead,
poised, cool, beautiful.
Bright eyes set in a head
most confidently shaped for life;
a long brown throat
full-flowing to her gentle breast;
the whole warm sweep of her
smooth and satisfying
to his heart;
even now he hears the soft, low
murmur
of her daily happiness. Gone.
By day he cries,
lifting his grey head to the wind;
searching even the shadows
of those that pass
for her presence. Night falls.
He calls out harshly, agonised,
wrenching the shadows,
wringing my heart.
I cannot gather up the grief
for my gander
when his goose-wife dies;
nor can I reach the mother,
watching
by her dying son.
There are no proportions in
suffering;
I can only offer each my reverence.
(February,
1991)
