A quiet house

A quiet house

A quiet house
and from a window
barren black trees waiting to bud
no coral or turquoise sky
just the dull grey of lingering winter

Yesterday by the railway cutting
a pigeon tossing dead leaves aside
one by one with its beak
scavenging for food under the mulch

But beauty conserved in the mind
the thought of love
that is not a perfection
much more a process
a necessary moving towards another
in which kindness and understanding
are unlimited in the give and take
of adjustment or accommodation
fingers that run through printed silk
the blue midnight of a summer shared
Life is the fugitive
and we pursue it with a passion
: to hold her and know the intimacy
of her breast and to have seen her
in times of joy and ecstasy and in sorrow
each kiss a blessing each word
a consolation

Love is neither a posture nor a demand
it sets no agenda and comes at no price
as long as it is true and mindful
Her hands reach out to me mine to her
and in that grasp
in that physical understanding
our affections are enshrined
our hearts set on a course
against the destructive surge of time
and for ourselves we needs must make
a quiet paradise in the house of our heaven

John Lyons

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