Fairy Lights

 

Every light is a fairy light

Over water, at dusk, at dawn,

Seen from the road through a screen of trees,

Gleaming in glimpses behind a hill.

 

And every song is a fairy song,

As long as you sing it quietly,

Whisperingly, with no strong rhythm,

Into the ear of someone gone.

 

Your life itself is a fairy-dream,

Dashing and dancing beyond your reach,

Laughing out echoes in unseen places,

Leading you on till the fever breaks.

 

And what’s left then? Just memory and shadow.

A pause, a lull, a taking-in of breath.

One last gleam over the dark horizon;

The sweet warm shelter of the endless song.

The Best Thing About Old Men

 

Old men get sentimental.

It’s the best thing about old men.

Their eyes mist up at the slightest provocation

They grip your hand, they beam at you, abashed,

 

And in their silence is a weight of pain,

Of joy, of gratitude, of holding-on –

But nothing of fear. No whisper-trace of fear.

They’ve outlived all their terrors, and they say,

While saying nothing, “You can do this too.

You can live long enough to let all go,

Except the slow, fierce happiness you feel

At feeling anything. I’ll meet you there.”

 

Then they relax, and smiling turn away

To watch a bird scratch madly at the dust

With eyes that see, and do no more than see –

Their hands at rest, their hearts at peace at last.

Elizabeth

You’re born into history,
Swaddled in pomp and castle drapes,
Weaned like a favorite greyhound in the shade
Of regal, royal, softly-blooming trees –

And then bright youth, exquisite manners,
An empire’s future rolling out
Like endless carpet at your questing feet,
Only to shatter in the masque of war.

You marry, lose a father, gain a crown;
You break your heart a thousand different ways.
The world whirls on; you’re not allowed to change;
We need you static at the maelstrom’s core.

And then you’re old. It happens very fast.
Your husband’s gone; the dogs are older too.
What’s left but England? England, and memory.
You did your duty; all the rest is noise.

The last day at Balmoral, you look out
The ancient window at the new, fresh day.
A bird sings on a bough; the sun grows hot;
You close your eyes, and Philip takes your hand.

The Slow Learner

 

As he grew older, he was filled with the world:

Its broken joys, delicious longings,

Heart-pain, sheer beauty, and vast poignancy.

 

His mind still churned, and his heart still desired,

But somehow his soul had emptied out,

 

And into the breach poured light and shadow,

The beating of other hearts, the glorious mess of the world.

 

In time he realized that he was this emptiness;

He was the vessel, and not what it contained.

He was this endless pouring-in of magic –

Pouring into nothing, and leaving no trace.

Kate

 

The person who was not there

Was in every room.

She had painted the paintings;

She had chosen the house;

She had made the friends who now gathered,

And the family that gathered was hers.

 

The one thing she could not do was show up,

Because they don’t invite you to this party -

Your last party, the one with the awkward laughter,

The stories about you,

The silences about you too.

 

Rest easy, Kate.

I wish you could have seen it.

How much you were loved and are loved;

How full your empty house is today.

1972

 

We were young once, and invincible,

Breasting the waves like yearling gods,

Beating a soul-felt rhythm on the skin

Of plume and eddy, dancing our wild way

Through the forest of gates and onward into glory:

Silver and gold, and simply being there.

 

Fifty years went by like heartbeats,

And here we sit, men and women no longer young,

Hearing the band and telling the old stories,

Greeting as brothers the rivals of our youth.

 

It was Germany West and East back then,

With iron between, cutting the tie of blood;

And somewhere in the games there was violence, awful,

Covered in the silence of bureaucracy and death.

 

What could we do? We raced as best we could.

We lost and won, made memories and friends.

We knew the world would spin on, no matter the outcome,

But still we strove as if all hung on us.

 

And what did it mean? It had its own meaning -

Something no word, song, medal could express -

Something that could be spoken only by the paddle 

As it pulled the fierce water, pulled eternally,

And ceased.

Alpine Dusk

 

There’s a brass band playing,

Teens clambering into boats,

And a final pink light on the mountains

As the world loses color for sleep.

 

Nothing is wrong in this part of Germany.

No one here now will ever die.

No one is nursing a secret sorrow;

No one is guilty, no one is lost.

 

Here there is only a duck slowly swimming,

Music on the water,

And infinite time.