Pavane for Lost Companions
Time flies to memory and compromise.
Which did you invent, the driftwood edge of ocean,
the steady grain of footprints, her face
within a sea of faces?
A hoop at each lobe, at first glance
careless gold, a decoration, but within each circle
further echoes of circumference,
that was your impression first and last.
Every face there, you realise now, was hers.
It was easy,
mistaking each tatty jet of shadow for angels
tumbled from rookery slums.
Mary-blue skies marbled pink at sunset
made waiting harder to define, the beach
cut with her initials— everything so familiar.
Even at that distance
she recognised you, your waves and particles.
Touching her lips to your ear, she spoke
a dead language. The dead and their histories
were in her mouth.
The fault was not yours.
A scrap of sun foundered on the horizon.
You remember the way the light tasted, and the surf,
silver, shot through with cedar scents.
"tumbled from rookery slums" is great. Not sure who (all) you have in mind here, but I like it and will re-read to better understand. I think I would've used 'adornment' for 'decoration', but who am I to say when it comes to your poetry? Excellent work.
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