Selected Poems by Morag Harris

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THE WOUND IN THE GARDEN

We had a talk in the garden

You and I. Besieged by green flushing – It was hard. Summer –

Crescendo lilting and hushing,

Elms, oaks, horse-chestnut trees,

Rhododendron and azalea skies

The gravel barred by hollyhocks, man-high,

Riding their way, intrepid, self-seminated.

Long, long ago!

I you said

Stopped loving you. Or gave up, was the word?

Either way, the wound was small, but a brush

This time, a drop, on my unclosed thigh. Still

Today I thread the hollyhocks, yellow, red

Unbending, shifting to the wind.

Shivering the cold, celebrating the sun

I return where in your thirty years’ or so

Characteristic pose

You sit, still, a Pharaoh to my eyes,

Digesting the world with thought and books,

Where other people’s

Thought is.

You and I. In summer.

In Gethsemane.

THE TALKING SHAWL

I caught you tonight without words.

So unlike you, so like you

`American-‘ you said, and you stopped

As at an abyss

Over borders, you swayed, then you spoke –

You had lost

Words – quite banal ones – you said.

Annoyed. Bemused. Curious.

You seemed on Eternity’s edge.

In my childish heart, a cord tightened.

My shoulders crossed by a shawl from Tibet

You gave me of late

Candid – white –

Against the cold

Where once you gave me swords to cross.

I think none other like it exists.

IF I WERE TO DIE TOMORROW

If I were to die tomorrow

I would say

The things that have mattered most

Were, seeing you

In this way

Most, the memories of us in our youth

Flood my sight

Of late, how you danced when you walked

Your pocketed hands

And your auburn curls

Down in front, and those deep dark auburn

Eyes’ sweet gaze.

How very much has changed.

I recall, your room, our books, your ample

Bed, haunting music you played

As we lulled to sleep –

Each other’s arms. Friends out and in – all day-

Then evening – alight in a circle –

Paul warming his violin

And the Brahms violin concerto

Blazing out in the night.

Then us. Us alone. How much

Since those notes in the air

Fingered the oak – by the stars – to the lake –

To the grass beyond – still on –

Till where

You batted and fielded.

And I in a haze,

Discursing of Plato and various

Other entirely unknowable lives,

Began the long, long wait I would pass

Love, missing your auburn eyes.