(22.11.1944 / Nottingham, England/live in Australia)

Does She Stalk Pathways

‘How much we change...
I well remember when, ’
She said -
But that was years before
And now, she’s dead!

Who was she - why,
And what to me,
Who once lived, died,
Yet stirs my memory?

A brief spark, struck
From some ancient flint
That caught, soared, burned
Cooled,
Teetered at the brink;

Then sputtered, died
Leaving no mark,
No trail beyond the heavens
That sped her... Dark!

Her flight was short, sharp
Exquisite and pale,
Translucent, futile
She spilt her grail

With every seed spawned
At harvest’s spring,
Her womb wide
She let them in.

All ruffians and whores
She bore to this,
The swift brief spark, struck
Then nothingness.

And why, when mirrors
Tell me I’m old,
Does she stalk pathways
I’d paved with gold?

10 December 1984

by David Lewis Paget

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