That night, the day we removed a window on the wall,
With a jug of water, torch and a kitchen knife
I stayed up all night quite on my own,
Seeing through the hole cold darkness
At about two, pre-dawn, as the
Blow of the gust outside what’s warm
Inside made worn, you came up the stair
To where I sat huddled, covered in a sheet
On your ancestral chair
And on the top-most step you
Paused for a while
And in the half-scent light of the moon
Your smile was as beautiful, as gentle
As a wing, that for the time, was suspended by its own caccoon.
Yes — the stream of soft light
The windows through expelled what shadows
For me and you; and you sat there,
And seated, we talked for the night, the rest,
Till, at four, to sleep I thought it best.
And many years later to a girl beloved,
In nostalgic tones, this story I told.
Perhaps what you felt that night on the step
Is, perhaps, quite close to what I felt when she
Let the silence embalm me; and tighten her hold.
And later, many days — a few months — now passed,
Where that window, that day, was taken down, unglassed
At two, pre-dawn, with lesser fear of glum dark
I write this, on my own, though my sunken heart
As it sometimes does, right now, mourns for you.