Stag
I once saw a Highland stag.
It was magnificent.
We looked at each other for some time.
I felt no love for it,
it also was free of such bonds.
Eventually it moved away
disappearing behind a ridge,
strange, but then I felt love –
I missed it.
So it is with those
who have appeared and disappeared
over the strung-out years.
Many went away
then came back as ghosts -
not dead, but ghosts, nevertheless.
but if I really missed them
they went away.
This word ‘love,’
maybe I am misinterpreting it,
I know I have been misled often
by the appearance
of words, names and images,
by the felt wave, its crests and troughs.
there is something much better
behind all those waves,
something worth drowning in.
Once again I recall the stag,
how only after it’s disappearance,
did I love it.
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