She

- jan-u-wine
She

was like

me.

I know it.

 

I remember her:

all soft, dark hair

melting

to serene,

pale beauty,

all

quick,

clever fingers

and curious eyes,

like the Sea.

 

I remember

the odd

tilt

of her head

when we

read

together

in dimming

twilight

and how her voice

paused

and

fretted,

high and low

about some phrase

that now I know

she loved.

 

I remember

how

she would sigh

and look away

when Da and I

tumbled,

wild with laughter,

through the gate,

carelessly wiped feet

muddy

across her floor,

dirty and downcast

as the rogues

we wished to be.

 

I remember.

 

She would bite her lip

and the pale pink

would blush to red

and

the red

would rise

into the snow of her cheeks.

 

I remember

the soft,

tender

roundness of her arms,

the left holding me,

tight, safe

against the steady rhythm

of her heart,

against the billow of her skirt,

the right

deftly  

twisting sun-hazed

black-berries from their

hooked vines.

 

I remember.

 

I remember

the night they brought her Home.

 

So far above her

I stood

and watched them

close her eyes.

 

I did not want them to.

 

How could we see

each other

if they did that?

 

Even then,

I remember,

 

I remember....

 

her mouth smiled at me,

just a little.

 

A pale water-lily

caught

in the dark enchantment

of her hair.

 

Her hand,

slender,

curled like a babes

inside Da's dark palm.

 

Her head

rested

trustingly

upon the sturdiness

of his chest.

 

The heaviness of his arm

still held her,

uselessly

against the night.  .

 

They are sleeping.

 

Aren't  they?

 

Soon it will be light

and she will rise,

 

they will rise,

 

and she will sweeten porridge for me

and Da and I will dig worms from the garden

to catch fish with.

 

We will run

and chase  fire-flies

beneath the heated moon

until we fall,

breathless,

on either

side of her

and she will tell us stories

of long-ago.

 

They will not go

where I

cannot follow.

 

_______________

 

Sometimes,

just

sometimes,

when it is grey outside,

and the rain

runs soft

down the face of the Row....

 

sometimes,

I take his cloak

and walk

out into the darkness,

into the night

which smells of damp'd fires

and I remember him.

 

Sometimes.....

 

I seek her

in the distant

moon-light

that pours

silver

upon the voice

of the wind,

and sleeps

like a tiny, fragile bird

in the arms of  the trees.

 

She was like me.

I know it.