My Goat and I
My goat lives in a field near the house
where on her weathered hoofs she frolics freely
or sometimes skips across the grass and gate
to listen, watch and wait for friendly visits,
as knowledgeable, well-trained watch-goats do.
Visitors, unwary, or pamphlet-bearing politicians
need take care and stay alert, aware of action.
Goat’s favourite is an in-law relative, a graduate of DIY,
adorned with confidence and gown and mortar board
with tassel, whose conversation in a “little chat” together
always amends my contribution: corrects, instructs
and educates ad infinitum, making plain, with sips of tea
that must be green and scones that must be gluten-free,
where wisdom lies assuredly. But “Watch, look out!”
Regalia quickly flies as yet another tasty tassel disappears.
A just dessert, methinks—with just a tiny tincture
of alter ego shame—for one who really gets my goat.
Simple things I miss: a footstep in the hall,
a kiss, imprint of wavy hair upon the bed;
his voice, his hand a gentle touch upon my back
whenever walking at my side, his total presence:
my blazing sun by day, my streaming moon by night,
the other half of self and present, ever ripe.
I wish that I could bottle “missing”, drop by drop,
to smell, to lick, to taste, devouring love forever,
but part of me is corpse—as utterly is he,
numbed by death’s dark night and suffocating ash
of absence. Eyes seem sightless, all desire dissolved.
And yet there slowly comes a gentle healing time
that feels like angel wings about me hovering,
when I can fold a pile of memories away,
treasured in a crafted basket made of crystal,
like his heart which shattered in a crescent light.
It sits upon my dresser now, filled with dust,
an always pretty thing that glows as I pass by.