Your Yellow Heart

Your Yellow Heart

A yello train of melodies
unsung.
A trace on paper, the paper itself.

I dreamt of you as I woke, you were gone.
My lids had lifted but I could not see
for the glare and glory
as veils parted.

Paper and lines alike faded, paths were lost,
the secret corners of the page shrank deep
into tiny ochre shells,
feigning sleep.

The writing fades as in time suspended,
you are leaving me no choice
but to stay
while I hover over the silent thought
that meant to be written that day.

The one I cannot start to guess, the one
I forgot in our secret place,
untouched,
after you left

in the shrivelling slowness of life without.

The yellowed aged scroll still speaks of you,
it lifts against the sun rays, thick with dust
at the window;
our window where no nails will  rust.

I would watch your form afar, from the dark,
writing your story on a path unmarked
when all around you
the ochres, brass, coppers and gilded glass
turned from golden mist to light.

I see the writing of you everywhere,
the landing places where your spirit lived
a while.
I see your thoughts with my soul's eyes, from there
I get up, leave the room and smile,

enriched in the matters of earth and God.

I hummed along the melodies
you wrote
and traced in song my train of life and thought
passing me by and moving on, then fought
our fate.

I took the shrunken corners of the page,
the mist, the dust, the rusty window nails
and turned the tiny ochre shells into
the shrinking violets I'd seen in you,
awaiting dawn.

I woke up all over and saw
the little yellow train you'd draw
for me
each time you left a note, your melody,
traced on paper: your promise of return.

I dreamt of you, that you had gone, were lost,
it got hazy. When you returned at last
among the tiny shelters of ochre,
you like the pearl, them the oyster,

I held the shrinking violet I took
to be almost invisible - not quite -
its regal tone, last of its kind till light,

by dew and dawn revealing
the golden honey glory in its heart.


Stephanie Dale   Nov 2019