Zbornik Mednarodnega literarnega srečanja Vilenica 2004 - Ljudmila

Sydney Lea
Wife-Tracking
Men and women follow different rhythms.
No, more than merely different: poles apart,
According to the age’s trendy wisdoms.
Perhaps sometimes she feels an actual start;
Looking up from her desk, she may be stunned
By the sky of middle February, blue
That’s so much more than blue, and unruly sun
That lays a string of gems on the aging snow.
Upon which, work be damned, she climbs our ridge.
And sometimes I myself, some hours later,
Can cease my maundering over a stubborn page.
Sun will have traveled ever so much farther
Down than I’d have dreamed. So up I get
From my own desk. I crack the study door,
And even though my hearing is a wreck,
My ears perceive the ravens’ repertoire
In all its wild variety: that bleat,
That audible yawn, that scold, that cheep, that bawl.
I take to the ridge, upon whose sheet the feet
Of that same lissome wife have earlier scrawled
A furtive script I seek to understand.
I follow the vanishing trail, eyes down, intent,
Some story meanwhile scripting itself in mind.
I also imagine I catch a mixture of scents:
Like a working hound, I chuff and snuff, discerning
Fresh air, shampoo, wet wool, some human musk.
The story’s a mixture too — of sadness, yearning.
I circle back to the new-lit house. It’s dusk.
Perhaps inside I’ll sense those scents for certain.
There are times when disparate rhythms coalesce.
I see her penumbral shape behind a curtain.
There’s more than I deserve in this life of bliss.
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