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There is no metaphor for parting like
the sea; at once, an open space, yet present;
so we though gone our separate ways must strike
the same horizon, none to be seen, silent,
yet there still, all that blue water between
a healing, our estrangement set serene.
Well versed in parting, it is childhood’s bane,
our pools had widened with the years to seas,
the schools had schooled us, grumbles all in vain,
till we had been hardened by slow degrees,
and in early maturity the ocean
crossed, that vast metaphor for past emotion.
Ah, we saw the sea in all its blue guises,
in death its inky depths the wide Pacific,
its tranquillity sufficed, no surmises
but these chartered waters rendered specific;
then along came love, soft as touch of hands,
once betrayed, the Equator burst its bands. |
