Epithalamium

(For Zoë Brigley and Dan Thompson)

Oozing a delicate sensitivity
             dancing gently on the dreams of one another
                          gliding on the smiles of stewards

directed to their seats within the hall,
the couple sit.

Leaning in, he holds her hand
and in the simple stroking of her fingers
in the complicated sequencing of steps behind their eyes,
he holds her in a layback spin that lifts his heart to orbit
all around
her.

As the open rink of her palm rests upon the supplicant of his,
as they wait for the Boléro to begin,
as his thumbnail traces out the long line of her heart,
skates down the life line, turns once more to track back paths of fate,
as the tone poem plays and he explores the Venus Hill
the Great Thumb Hill — high and plump — and — wide and firm

She sighs. He sighs. And the audience remember
— goosebumps — iconic tingles — a hymn of desire —

And Ravel’s ghost whispers, ‘Do not hurry me away …’
And our lover whispers to his lover’s ear, words not for us to know.
And, travelling the length of her finger, the aurum ring finds rest,
offering up its gift of gold at the foot of the mound of Apollo.

Septet for the End of Time

III: The Lovers

Not salmon, new potatoes on a plate or chilled white wine; a Pinot Grigio.
No roaring fires, no seas to wave goodbye. No time to mourn by willow bank.
No cellos, clarinets or violins. But let wild garlic, crushed by runners’ feet,
breathe out the way of things.
And stone will tell the secrets of its past and mossy bank play pillow to our heads
and dew shall dress the blades, each blade of grass — and birds? Let there be birds;
thornbird, Phacellodomus, and thrush, a speckled thrush, a bird of song, whose trills
form standing waves upon the Styx.
An echo of my voice will call you love and you shall kiss each finger, nape of neck
and brow. Your tongue will tell the mountain of each breast; the valleys where we both once dreamed we’d go.