Each September

[Pilgrim]

Each September

The book slides from my lap
and slaps the tiled smoothness
of our lounge-room floor,
still bare of rugs
despite her searching
every carpet shop in town.
She is meticulous in this as all things;
knows the weavers and the dyes
of Persia and Kashmir
and is prepared to wait for what she wants.

Half aroused from sleep,
I sense her in the room -
a merest brief displacement
of autumn air.

She loves this time of year,
and each September comes alive
with the reds and golds and russet browns
that are her favoured colours.

I hear the rustle of her dress -
that silk and lace she wore last spring
to celebrate our union;
then safely stored away
for Christening.

I feel her whispered breath upon my face,
and breathe in turn
the perfume of her natural self.

Then, in that moment’s hesitation
before she moves her cheek on mine
and offers up
the soft, expectant fullness of her mouth,
I turn, half rise to face her,
and behold -

those silent remnants of our love
that fill this room,
unlovely now,
resentful of her absence.

I steel myself against the too-familiar pain;
blink back the tears that prick my eyes;
and in the bitter bleakness of my heart
revile again that nameless,
faceless,
misbegotten thing
that broke its promise to us both,
and took her from me.

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