Skies and Souls

Tonight the sidewalks of Sligo
flowing with the pleasure of our steps
have borne the light freight
of two wandering souls,
the green touching the blue,
blue touching green,
eyes that dance in the darkness
of a cool august night,
eyes that kiss the silence
of the skies within
and the skies beyond.

Two skies and two souls,
each, swan-like,
gliding down and reaching in
to feed deep on the rushes of the bay.
What was that touch
that came through the skin?
Why was it warm?

Even the dim and watchful
eyes of Mrs. Clancy
in a dream drift away
to her days of youthful desire,
as we beneath a streetlight
each receive an intimate gift,
a secret hidden deep
within the rushes of the soul,
a seed that bears a future rose
unfolding, opening out
in the fullness of the one.

Two skies and two souls,
each, swan-like,
gliding down and reaching in
to feed deep on the rushes of the bay.
What was that touch
that came through the skin?
Why was it warm?

The rain has let up,
the mist-gray clouds have risen a bit,
and the voice of the river
echoes from old stone walls,
while my eyes follow the dance-flight
of the swallows of Sligo
at play around an old church tower,
at play in a joyful prayer,
a reckless prayer
to the beyond within them
within the cut of their wings.
And the poem that is your eyes
rises before me.

Two skies, two souls,
each, swan-like,
gliding down and reaching in
to feed deep on the rushes of the bay.
What was that touch
that came through the skin?
Why was it warm?

August 16 - 21, 1990