So you are the last, my lady;
you are the last I’ll love
with your wayward ways an’ your woman’s pride.
You take your time to come to me, you wanton;
(and your feel so fine and your warmth and joy
and the way you fit with me;
and your sometime thrust at my thigh by night;
or your rough-tongued kiss at my face as you dance away
for a space, a morning....);
I stretch my hand for you.
Come, come easy now; but you’ll no.
Just away down the hill I see you lie,
waitin’ an’ waitin’
an’ sometimes turnin’ your head
to look on me.
Will I come to you, will I?
Nay, I’ll never,
You’ll come to me for sure
when there’s trust between the both of us.
You’ll come an’ you’ll stand just
out of reach, one paw just
hesitatin’, gentle - to come, to go -
there’s never a-knowin’ which.
An’ your eyes will haunt on mine
an’ your reachin’ muzzle turn a little
an’ your shy-like ears will crinkle up
an’ you not knowin’, my lovely one,
whether to stay, to come,
will whine an’ wonder....
An’ I’ll not be lookin’ then, my darlin’, I’ll look away
as the sun slides gentle over the wall,
an’ the dying grasses sigh a little,
an’ my hands lie still, so still, a-waitin’
for you to trust in me;
waitin’ an’ waitin’....
The damsons drop. The
thatch turns gold.
The stones settle.
Come soon, my bonnie bitch; come, Death, my dearie.
I’ll not be mindin’ now.
(October,
1979)
