Thursday, 23 January 2014

on a discovered curl of hair

When your soft welcomings were said,
This curl was waving on your head,
And when we walked where breakers dinned
It sported in the sun and wind,
And when I had won your words of grace

It brushed and clung about my face.
Then, to abate the misery
Of absentness, you gave it me.

Where are its fellows now? Ah, they
For brightest brown have donned a gray,
And gone into a caverned ark,
Ever unopened, always dark!

Yet this one curl, untouched of time,
Beams with live brown as in its prime,
So that it seems I even could now
Restore it to the living brow
                                                                           By bearing down the western road
                                                                        Till I had reached your old abode. 

                                                                                                                                                        -Thomas Hardy

she opened the door

She opened the door of the West to me,
With its loud sea-lashings,
    And cliff-side clashings
Of waters rife with revelry
She opened the door of Romance to me, 
     The door from a cell
     I had known too well,
 Too long, till then, and was fain to flee
She opened the door of a Love to me, 
     That passed the wry
     World-welters by
As far as the arching blue the lea
She opens the door of the Past to me,
    Its magic lights,
    Its heavenly heights,
 When forward little is to see!

- Thomas Hardy

Sunday, 5 January 2014

enough Time?

My mind lingers on the golden water where the sailing boats reflect in glorious light.
The mermaids sing with the cooing gulls and watch from stranded seaweed rocks.
The farm house with gilded panes is set in the valley.
The hay loft in the barn.
The wet silver path waiting for ancestor to tread again.

But you, you were there watching with me.
We were existing then.
We talked and sang and ran and roared into the wind.
We smiled into the setting sun and sat and watched the waves.
You asked me
'Don't you want to stay here forever?' 

But did I hold you enough.
Did I kiss you enough.
Did I just lie with you and not wander further, enough.

Because Time slips through my fingers like rain.
It tells me to be afraid.
It whispers to me a worry
 that I haven't loved enough 
in this constant now.

Joanna Grace