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ten poems
117
Aesthete
One should start with your eyes when describing you.
My love, your eyes are jewelled pools for my looking
and seeing, for my journeys with and without you.
Your eyes are fires in the night toppling tyrants.
Your eyes are time in Rome and Paris, ancient
and fortuitous fountains quenching a young boy’s thirst.
Our brown and green fells are your eyes rising
up in sheer delight with the beneficence of sunlight.
Your eyes see the possibility of stars in ordinary skies,
tumbling and swooning like birds on the wing.
Your eyes beg clemency for the poor and maligned
and the dispossessed who search you out as
earth mother.
Your eyes are children running wildly in summer rain,
swimming naked in our lakes and in our rivers.