II. WINDOW

I make a window

Of you, beloved,

Through which the sun colours

The silence.

Even your absences

Are spaces I have filled

With sapphire;

Your denials

Are burning gold,

I have painted your reluctance

Emerald green:

Your silences

Are crimson

On which your words make delicate

Black tracery.

As for me,

My will is the grey lead

Which I have bent to hold the coloured

Panes of you.