I shed, today, tomorrow’s tears.
They flowed unseen within,
yet tarnished still the golden
final time together – not weeks,
nor even days, but hours,
the minutes pressing in tight embrace.
Were it not for you, timid
dweller on ends that must come,
this would all have been so true:
My heart full with hers on hills unbuttoned
By rays of sun so ripe the light lies
Heavy like fruit from the sky’s
Boughless blue, or:
Eleanor, our love is enchantment,
This I say, and more, as we walk
And talk with hands entwined,
Limbed together from the heart, and:
Sweet Eleanor, our hearts beat
Together, we pulse soft protest
Against the circumscription of clocks,
Taking our time in these last hours,
Singing, deep from within, songs
unsung and unheard and never to be
heard and sung again, each the brief flower
Of each unique moment of our love, blossoming
into the soul's albums of its own sounds.
Yet every inch we covered together, I knew,
and know – and this is the pain of it – lay in the
unseen shadow of separation, and my hand gripped
yours also in fear, my song an also too, as it sang
strident against the coming silent nights,
The future’s unlit boulevards.
Did you feel it, gentle Eleanor?
And take with you into that far-off land
A memory tinged by my cowardice of heart?
To love without fear or regret
in view of life’s end, embossed with light;
untouched by the darkness we fear.