I remember you, resplendent
in white and gold, like a ****** bride,
but (as you said) with no such intent,
adventuring off – I was ill in bed
or I’d have been with you – to make mischief
in the jasmine-scented Cairo night.

And I remember you, rosy with wine,
in a long blue gown, with blazing hair outspread,
fast asleep in the back of a London taxi.
I had such ado to wake you,
while another friend stood by,
holding your golden child.

And when you finally surfaced,
you staggered, baby on arm, up the steps,
refusing help, to your front door;
we watched, our hearts in our mouths,
till you found the lock, and vanished inside.

So you have lived your life, ever chasing
after the next rainbow; a leonine spirit,
shimmering in air made lambent by your fire.

For years you were my icon, my aspiration,
but each of us must be true to her own nature;
it’s the kobbolds of earth give wings to the sea-goat’s foot.
‘The words of Saturn are harsh after the songs of Apollo’:
You, that way. I, this way.