|"Boulder Beach" in South Africa.|
Photograph courtesy of sxc.hu and Nick Holdstock of the UK.
Imagine (or be) yourself at ninety. Imagine you are a poet, still crafting poems. How lovely that your gift hasn't ebbed and drained away!
Sometimes you beat out the ones many decades younger... As here, where you take up simplicity in a poem of longing for your wife, your helpmeet and your love for 65 years. Evidently love calls us to the things of dream and to a radical foolishnessness.
Sometimes, on waking, she would close her eyes
For a last look at that white house she knew
In sleep alone, and held no title to,
And had not entered yet, for all her sighs.
What did she tell me of that house of hers?
White gatepost; terrace; fanlight of the door;
A widow's walk above the bouldered shore;
Salt winds that ruffle the surrounding firs.
Is she now there, wherever there may be?
Only a foolish man would hope to find
That haven fashioned by her dreaming mind.
Night after night, my love, I put to sea.
from Anterooms (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt)