[Edward John Poynter - Erato, Muse of Poetry]
The Bride
She was there and dressed in white
I thought, for a time,
she could be a bride,
my bride.
But she is not there for weddings
she is no-one's bride.
She will not be tamed.
She is not there for easy domesticity.
She will not always be there
like the morning
to turn her face towards you
on some warm pillow.
She moves over landscapes
and through forests
along shorelines
and across cliff tops,
always just out of reach,
always beyond your calling.
She moves like a cloud
across the skies of your life.
Beyond touch, she waits
for the world to move around her.
She was there
before history began:
before kings, kingdoms, deeds,
heroes and legends,
myths and long-faded memory.
She walked these green lands
long before the forests fell,
long before the rolling hills.
She will be here
long after your monuments
and domes are forgotten,
long after the last child
dies of its father's disease.
[See here for an explanation of these posts labelled as Monday Poem]
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