He’d taken it in his hand
her little gift.
I can’t,
he’d thought,
it isn’t right.
I’m not the man she thinks I am.
He’d almost spoken.
She’d closed his hand around it
“Give it life,”
She’d urged,
her eyes brimming with faith,
“It will give back to you.”
They’d stood
Immortals
till he’d turned
down the green hillside to the village
his journey begun.
She had stayed alone
upon the sea cliffs.
Now
in his studio
she stood there still.
In his watercolor
upon a pedestal of living green
storm clouds receding behind
in a promise of golden light.
He closed his set of watercolors
much grander than the little set
she’d given him that day.
Remembering
he gazed at her
who had become
a spirit
prophetess, angel, dream;
for there were her eyes
before him still
alive with faith.
