There is a Way which is not their way
Nor the way of he who was my youth,
For there is a real, numinous, loyalty in She who carried
And cares for
Us all:
Each life bound by those fated bounds
Of Fate
 

There is no betrayal as when he, once the Comrade,
Spoke to Police to save himself
And, sending letters, spewed rumours forth
Twisted by a burdening ego
The way some Politicians twist some words
To sell.

No betrayal as when she, my pledged, drew to her naked glistening body
Another man while I slept at peace
Within the dreams we shared;

No betrayal as when he not even one bullet wounded yet fearing death
Ran in that humid African heat to save himself
Leaving we few who remained
To weave away at night toward that other land,
No graves for those we left.

I know each mood,
Each change of now inconstant Season
For the giving that it is
As I feel that quiet warmth of love
Born when Spring, slowing growing, grows
Letting in that breath of Sun:

There is then that warming languor
While I walk between Sky, Silence
And earth: only trees taller
Where shade is only cloud,
Here, here among the hills, the Fells, the land
I love.

This is The Way which is not their way
As they who betray themselves with noise
Do not, cannot, will not love as I - we, few - love
With no desire to change, constrain, destroy She
Who, still, lives within us all:
They do not see as I see,
Each emanation Her precious life.

So there is freedom, peace,
Between sky, silence
And earth.
 
 
 

DW Myatt