Poem 156: Pas de Deux

the evening is hers,
so she dreams
of sitting in her alcove of light,
easy breathing
floating the world,
she moves in the tides
of her purpose,
rolling gently from side
to side her nakedness
burnishes the wood,
her eyes are drawn steel.

She dreams of dancing
her light in him
and waking in him,
with him in her arms
as she gathers
all his worlds children to her
for the walking
of their light on water
away from all known
sure lines
and then dancing
his light on to the surface
of petals falling
through her skin in time
into him softly as the dragonfly
moon beating silver
into the bark of trees,
creates whorls in the
labyrinth of him
as branches and leaves diffuse
the light,
spreading their limbs
they lean together
into this field of vision,
then slip away
into silence.

As the silken rope
of her hair unwound him
from her waist,
she never once took her eyes
away from him
as he spins away from her side
of the westward hill,
loading the pressure of light
into her fingertips,
she leads him out
in this masque
for dancing her heart
onto his green sleeve,
and from his waist a pirouette of
harlequinned light and dark snow
onto the wings of bright angels
treading a path
through the canyon of him,
her blaze of sparkling green
tips the wand
she carries into the heat
and heart of interlocking
the stone and the flower,
wed to the lake and the dream.

and in the shelter of her wave,
her hips flow around him,
he reaches for her
and they grow wings.

A ghost beckons
in the deepest of green,
and flowing
forward into a haze of trees
invites them to sail away
into the afternoon
of this golden horizon,
and casually
oh so casually,
a cloud passes through
the centre of the sun.