Reading the Words
When you came back from Skye
your eyes were blank. Absence
was the wind's trickle still in your hair,
a murmur, no echo, a murmur.
Your lips parted as if to speak.
No breath came to ferry the words.
It was the end of the day.
I gathered each and let them fall,
p i s c e s i n s u s p e n s i o n,
then nothing at all.
Your look was Storr and queer as the words.
I stood at the door, a stranger,
divining the fall, the throw of bones,
coming to know what you knew,
until dusk, too, had inevitably gone.