(Recycled from the House of Love)
Judith Wright has died.
Woman to Man
The eyeless labourer in the night,
the selfless, shapeless seed I hold,
builds for its resurrection day
silent and swift and deep from sight
forsees the unimagined light.
This is no child with a child’s face:
this has no name to know it by:
yet you and I have known it well.
This is our hunter and our chase,
The third who lay in our embrace.
This is the strength that your arm knows,
The arc of flesh that is my breast,
the precise crystals of our eyes.
This is the blood’s wild tree that grows
the intricate and folded rose.
This is the maker and the made:
this is the question and reply:
the blind head butting at the dark,
The blaze of light along the blade.
O hold me, for I am afraid.
Farewell Judith, and thanks.