But for you

For the country of my birth I'd give
two and a half wry cheers -
for castles comfortably retired from war,
welcoming England's grandchildren
with gap-toothed walls and safety rails,
with project sheets and glass displays,
while resting out their stony twilight days
in peaceful shires.

But for you
I'd give the slivered sunlight breaking through the boughs
of birch and oak and hawthorn on steep hills
that tower above and scramble headlong down
to catch the river's flash of white: its falling roar,
and seaward rush, rock-leaping splash
and dancing joy of silver green
where waters meet.

For my old school I'd give a grudging cheque
lukewarmed by memories of ties and caps,
the musty trains, tweaked ears and chattering;
the masters desperate to twist and fill
the indifferent back-row boys, who scratched
yet more unsightly insults on the desks;
the dusty rubber balls that smelled of smoke,
thwacked with slapping hands against brick walls;
the break time friends.

But for you, my love,
I'd give the songs whose key unlocks my soul.
Naive Rodolfo taking Mimi's hand,
their springtime love, the lily and the rose,
the voices, soaring, dying out: 'Amor.'
Or Dylan tearing folk apart, with gleeful scorn
then laying down the assassin's pen to show
the emptiness inside, or love-sick joy,
where pain meets ecstasy.

For one who hangs upon a tree I give
and give a yearning, puzzled quest for faith;
intense and barely comprehending thanks
for gifts, his staggering gifts of pilgrim friends -
I never knew my heart could hold such love -
and for his passion beyond flesh and world
and yet infusing all, from quantum glue
to soil and sweat and dew and stars and time
and lacerating nails.

But for you, my own, I give
my body's love.
My pulsing blood, encircling arms, delight
in hair and breast and hips and probing lips;
and tender hugs, and cups of tea, and all
my faltering, well-meant words and kindnesses;
my utter undeserving love,
where soul meets soul.