For Sarah At a Parting

It is good
that you were stopped
while you were
a work in progress.
Like all things of beauty
that rouse and stir
the ones that are not,
you are perfect
with your rough edges,
your palms dirtcreased
along the sentences of fate,
your eyes – clear as opal whirlpools – witness
to pirates and fairies:
your mind seeing
no difference between the two
since treasures are always guarded.
To you it never mattered, by whom.

I loved it
when I died each time –
when the pallid
turned placid
and you worked my way stealthily
towards a vision as electric
as a river,
and as juvenile.
Mountains have rules
of when to rise,
when to grow
and when to behave
like sedentary stones.
Not you.
Tomorrow you will bend
into a rainbow perhaps
and pretend
that there’s an unguarded pot of gold
wherever you end.

I remember men
who walked away
from the gold
because it is liquid to touch,
vapour at clutch,
solid only when left alone.

A few of us
still visit the crags
which you had once left
knowing that it was
the only way we could arrive.
We stare at whatever
lies opposite us.
We breathe in love
and exhale gratitude
so that it may reach you
wherever you hide.

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