The Quarry
Out of the corner of my eye
a movement,
fluttering like a bird,
and I turn;
seeing me
your face darkens and
you disappear into the crowd
towards the other, empty
and indifferent.
Another day:
a laugh, deceptively familiar,
kind eyes, which dupe me
for a season,
before I realise
they do not belong to you.
I search for you
down ill-lit streets,
in the eyes of fellow workers,
on journeys home,
in the book I read,
at airports
and in shopping malls.
Along the silent river banks
I track your footprints;
desperate now,
I search for you
high on the fells,
and through marshes
where the east wind chaps my skin.
I look for you in sleep;
and even in
those hidden, sacred places;
where the drumbeat
of the search is muffled
- for a while.
I wait now, mute and drained;
but a still small voice,
(that still small voice?)
has recently grown louder,
and yes,
(a short laugh, a slow breath)
I think it may be right.
My quarry,
all I know is how to search,
I have no skill in finding.
a movement,
fluttering like a bird,
and I turn;
seeing me
your face darkens and
you disappear into the crowd
towards the other, empty
and indifferent.
Another day:
a laugh, deceptively familiar,
kind eyes, which dupe me
for a season,
before I realise
they do not belong to you.
I search for you
down ill-lit streets,
in the eyes of fellow workers,
on journeys home,
in the book I read,
at airports
and in shopping malls.
Along the silent river banks
I track your footprints;
desperate now,
I search for you
high on the fells,
and through marshes
where the east wind chaps my skin.
I look for you in sleep;
and even in
those hidden, sacred places;
where the drumbeat
of the search is muffled
- for a while.
I wait now, mute and drained;
but a still small voice,
(that still small voice?)
has recently grown louder,
and yes,
(a short laugh, a slow breath)
I think it may be right.
My quarry,
all I know is how to search,
I have no skill in finding.
posted by Mary at 7:20 am
2 Comments:
I found this almost unbearably moving. Spare, but just enough images out of the corner of the eye to make it not simple or linear. Isn't searching the only thing we can ever become more practiced in? Finding, ah, that's another matter...
Ah, the elusive something. I know the feeling. I've read this poem several times and find it very evocative. Yes, the small still voice! Listen!
I'm sorry that I've been swamped the last few days and only got to this now. I'm enjoying the fresh look of your blog, too!
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