I
Dull’s the day and hope,
slips the mooring rope,
ends the quiet handshake.
Surely I could reach you,
jump across,
walk your deck again,
admire your paint,
see my face
reflected in your brass,
check your maps and canvas,
smell the sea-sweat in your wood -
surely we could sail again!
Whether we could
is a leaf-thought drifting
through the sepulchral space.
II
Tide moves you on.
They’re wrong who say
that parting can be sudden
even when by death.
Instead the mind spins a dreamtime
complete with your voice,
your words distinctly heard,
smells of food you prepared.
Slowly the dust of days
settles softly on the glass,
and blunts the familiar
edges of your face.
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