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Pavane

There is a disciplined formality to grace,

a step intricate as the pavane, a slow majesty

like the approach of swans we watch,

hand-fast, in unintended silence, as the small waves

lap sunlight against our feet on the white beach,

thinking: the dance is sunlight on a black, a white swan.

Thinking: the dance is all there is.

And if stone-weighted death remains in the deep heart,

it lies there intermixed with tremulous laughter.

Thus, if by night hurricanes drown

the living spirit under black waves,

were these swans to depart a storm-mad sea,

if—in that terrible place—

if I should see you who knew, beside me here,

the intricate consanguinity of light,

the figure of the royal dance,

remembering a time that never was, but still is,

we would smile

and bow.