In the amber of a late October,creative intelligence leaf
altered by illness
and a mauling from friends, we have
come again to London, and come
one to the other,
in truth,
it seems, for the first time
in twenty-something years.

These are our days.

Above, white lines from Heathrow
streak the sky, an airplane flashing
past a tawny sun,
its underwing turned gold.
Ahead is Christmas. Outside
the bang-blast of fireworks,
and the tread of traffic
dancing to the drum

of what must be done.
Not us. Not now.
In here, our clothes removed, our skin
cells open, one to the other,
once a day, we practice
spinning love, while the stillness

of the season holds us,
bathed in the warmth
of something more.

It was you who led, as male
desire is wont to do. Erect, unyielding,
it cut to our truth.
And I who thought of practice:
that Buddhist word, that way
to be, to being
in the moment one is
in.

So now we meet each evening
– our passing and our coming life
suspended –
upon a cushioned floor,
each time, it seems, anew,
each stroke the first, again,
in hours that know just what they hold
in this, our stilly autumn
in these, our goldspun days.

Want More Like This? Other Poems by Orna Ross: Here