A poem about love and loss from the perspective of 'Time. Stopped.' 's Phillip.
Were I not again to gaze upon the hazel-bark
Of my dear woman’s outpouring curls,
I would rather be struck blind
Than see love again in her place.
Were she never to walk along my heart,
Into her garden,
I would not walk my own steps,
For traitors to their nature they would be,
Images without a shadow.
Were her own heart to be forever parted
From my own - and dulled without her artistry -
I would be a fool to let my own rhythm
Fall into line with another's.
No thousand winters could part my darling and me,
Nor those five summers of tearing war;
Her spirit is as brisk as the wind,
As tight to me as the battered shirt
That holds my bloody heart together.
Were she never to spread branches back to the shore,
Be that in shame or diffidence or the multitude,
There would be less for me to say
Than to caress each fallen leaf without word,
To notice each piece of life that love has neglected,
Its silken hands lighting only the fortunate;
In her tearful memory would I bask
Rather than sunlight – for sunlight favours only the bold.
Love’s chosen few can frolic without care;
Until I am able to promise of forever,
I cannot rest, even in my living midnights,
Where the anti-paralysis of tortured dreams returns me,
When she is across miles, too far
For lips to touch and hands to clasp,
Far too far for her to savour this pouring, given love.