Heirloom Pendant of an Ash-Tracked Snow

by Iain James Robb


If I do not hear you leaving by the door...

The nearness here of this yet questions when

I know you will not come so back again,

Nowise the same as you were there before.


My own reflection, centred at its core

On knowing each trace of strangeness, will disclose

At day's height deviation less morose

From what it knew of you to what you were:

If you re-enter, lost before the rose

Before the rainyard seeks its prismed floor.


And if the bud bows down before the bow,

Through myriad sapphire grasses' cobalt trance,

Could one slow beat that blew return the dance

Of what you were translated into show?


My mirror's mine, that prismed each mischance

The room breathes, register, each second soon ago,

Calls seasons centuries that sky askance-

And weave you weft there closer, when you go.