January Hymn

The sun is scalding hot.
The pavement crackles with wind and dust,
And our skins blister, soaking up the brightness -
stretched with light until we can hold no more.

We walk,
Stepping carefully amongst the wreckage
Of December past.
The same gait. The same pace.

Our heads are always in the clouds.
People should look up more, you always said.
There’s so much to see in the sky:

The tips of old buildings. The light rounding out sharp corners.
The birds weaving like living smoke.
A lone geranium plant from a high window ...
We laugh ourselves stupid at cloud shapes.

(I’d built an edifice of my own, by this time.
A paper castle full of manuscripts and ideas.
Some in languages we know.
Some in ones we would learn together.)

And so we run.
Blithely, rejoicing in each other’s strength.
And we stumble, in the same ways -
Our feet fall on the same jutting stones.

But that’s the trouble, you say.
We’re too similar, without being the same.
We’ll never really run a parallel course.

Well my friend, as the song goes:
When your mind’s made up, there’s no point trying to change it.
So we'll close January and wait for February’s new.

I pray. Not knowing what to pray:
I shall always fight words that curtail your freedom,
Even if it means fighting myself.

So I ask God
For a cold day.
My eyes no longer streaming,
trying to see in the summer sun.
When I will go out,
Stepping on autumn leaves.

The light will be older then. Mellower.
And through the mist 
I will see Keat’s fruit, ripe and hanging low.

Full to overflowing from two trees.
Yours and mine. 
Side by side.
(Much like any others, really.)


And perhaps we shall see, what was always intended:
The strong independent roots. The distinct branches.
Yet the interlacing green. The shade they provide.

And the breeze,
When it whistles through the leaves,
Makes a sweet, straining tune.
You take the high notes, I the harmony.
The melody is (of course),
His.