Pulse
When finally you enter on the foothills of sleep
I lean down, hold one ear to your chest and drown
In the breathless murmur of your blood,
That whispered gallop whose syllables
Spell out not merely the pattern of all you’ll ever do
Or know, what games you’ll play and places go,
But also my own being, which is somehow present there
And given a meaning deeper than any before;
Here, for all time, is something more important than me,
The joyous recognition of a still point in the turning world
Around which your mum and I shall revolve, our days
Unwinding down those spiral arms, ammonites and galaxies
And the question perpetually answered. For now, though,
It’s enough to sit and listen, and feel your fingers curl on mine
As you broach the rim of some new horizon in your dreams.
