for M.

They say it is strange
to see the shadows rage
in passion past the turn of day;
and that our shapes engage
in shadow-dance upon the wall,
when some begin
to welcome dawn, they say is strange
as night floods in.

They say they say
we two should sleep, they say
who know the crown is theirs, and wear
the light-heart grace of day
with casual love. But we
who lead a slower pace
meet, and reply, and seek, and learn
in ever-again embrace.

Who are they? Not our children
who shout with scorn
at these dark reels, nor any young
that newer born
than us, outlast us, to outlaw
in their rude quickening
our love. But all our earlier selves
surround us beckoning.

For as we journey
into the non-light, comes the past –
a child-like outraged colony
that would command at last
its ruler, us. Ignore the calls
they make, harsh words they say –
these are our unbelieving hearts
as we steal endless day.

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