The Forest of Weeks


The dimming stars of dawn caress your face
above the huddled coat you've shrunk into.
Shunned, the fading frost goes to its place
and you reach out for me, and I for you.
And clasping fingers, tongues will have their way
and lips unite, conspiring with their breath.
Abandoned, thoughts of friendship worth its pay
when now we've love that grows as strong as death.

The early sun arouses all the wood
we're learning how to walk together in.
Each week's a spreading tree, yielding its fruits.
You lift your eyes to see where we have been.
Ahead the week-trees merge, row upon row.
The forest stretches out, grove beyond grove.
We whisper as we hold each other close
and 'yes', we say, '
'tiocfaidh ar la', my love'.

Aengus Hazelwood

The Brook by John Singer Sargent

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