Weather House
[For S.W. & S.T.]

I am the boy, she that girl,
in this rustic weather house,
conjoined together by a simple twist of gut,
its hateful twirl propelling me, with Alpine hat,
into the inclement grey

and she glides out so gracefully
with her pretty parasol,
vibrating to sunbeams, I would guess,
sensing her form from behind while I loiter in our hut,
waiting with longing for her return.

But when she does come back, of course, I get this crazy urge
to check out the sky and its clouds and moods,
so overcome am I by the movements of her person
in that complete tragical distance
that can we never bridge.

Often and often, we meet at the edge, all smiles,
as though in a fugue, with such miniscule trembles,
pivoting on the threshold of a tentative day,
until that cruel sinew takes a quarter turn, perhaps
and one of us departs.

Pinioned with pain for my Gretchen I can never touch,
as opposites we puppets jerk, compelled to dance;
as weather slaves we swivel by
to gristle's wretched whims, in cursèd minuet,
my wooden heart in knots convulsed, each time the sky turns blue.

Clive Donovan


If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Clive Donovan would be pleased to hear them