Love does not come to those who wait:
It is the river running through the turning mill,
passed the ears of corn a-sway, through the fisher’s net
on its way to the sea, passed the eye of the silvered fish
caught in cords, strung in warp and weft,
It is the tide that washes ashore against the river’s flow,
It is the brackish estuary, muddied waters in turmoil,
the dark volute, the dangerous eye of the eagle’s flight
soaring aloft, circling convections in preys pursuit,
It is the edge of a cloud against the blue sky.
It is the autumn leaf red against the red horizon.
It is the morning, and to lean against sleeping skin,
to kiss the scent at your nape, to begin each day
with you this way, renewed,
It is dawn, the dewdrop of your eye,
and when dusk returns, your profile turns before
the gathering dark and your smile is light.
Love does not wait for you to recognise the moment
when you realise:
love does not linger when you lie,
when I run from you (when I run to you)
for love does not lie
when I ask you and you reply.
Love is the boat in which we cross from side to side,
in which we traverse the ocean green and wide,
Then, I am the canvas sail and you are the wind.
When gulls cry, I am determined—the arm against the oar,
When you weep, I wonder if we’ll ever reach the safety
of the bay where the gulls fly, where the jetty juts into the calm
of your shore, where I gaze into the pool of your eye, and you whisper,
‘Shall we stay here forever?’
by Data © April 2018