Sorcha

 

Sorcha

 

Why do two truths flower on one face?

Maybe you’ll see traces

at first – like how pinks streak a warning sky

before melting into blues – perhaps a cry –

Shock? Surprise? Something you’ll recognise.

Smoke signals that always have been there,

lofting skywards – calling both to dare

to read, pore over the hieroglyphs

once obscure but becoming obvious:

and now the flames are fanned,

she’ll coyly take you by the hand.

 

But how can you both play this harmony?

Maybe you’ll settle for one key,

G Major – you’re a tonic, she’s the dominant,

all hands to duet – each as complement,

soft strokes, neither of you more prominent.

You’ll find a corner – you’ll practise, amazed,

shutting the fallboard but still on display,

to touch in blunt wonder; trace

semi-breves and breves scoring your faces,

and when you’ve had time enough,

she’ll lead you to honesty from bluff.

 

And if you surrender, what will you lose?

It’s not something you can choose,

battlements will tumble like dominoes,

as rushing water into cracks must flow,

thrusting your coracle onwards and you row

against currents, strain at oars, bend backs

until you relinquish and the rudder snaps.

All you might have wished for – yours:

Shipwrecked; entwined with each other,

and as you cling with nails to her beach,

she’ll chide; she’ll tease; begin to teach.

 

Where does elation end and jubilation begin?

That is a difficult place to find,

but together you’ll uncover it; spend time

there shocked by its relief; how fine

it is, long languid hours tracing contours,

from rippled peaks to valley floors,

dazed by the accuracy of the charts you draw –

and once complete, you still sketch more.

No longer strangers on a strange shore,

and as surveyors becoming familiar,

she’ll fix positions and chart the laws.

 

When will you know there’s nothing more?

Here is the unkindest cut of all,

a scratch, but it will serve - then fall,

Caesar - but a little way above your heads

comes some sort of chopper; you’re led

by kindly lights, subtle phrases, shepherd’s crooks

impersonations of those doting looks,

something intangible was all it took –

a smoothing of corners, a grinding of blocks:

and when at last it’s time to go,

she’ll softly sigh and let you know.