Hand-Clasp

to R.

At last under dark trees
we kneel. At last children of the night
we enter the outside as if
to take its blessing. Below us
the river is holy that admits
as one, our trusting hands.

At last the body’s ropes
fall free, at last the sharp string of words
has no effect: there are birds around
and we are of them. Then words
recall, and body claims; but first
an open joining

and in the electric light
in a room three storeys high in a block of flats,
our hands clasped tight on a formica table,
our two are one. At last
the tussle with words and body is freed. Our love
will find a way now, in its certain river.