Last Walk

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.