Eurydice at Swansea Fair
If we had not stopped
in that place, on that day,
at that accidental time,
if the season had been different,
if the woods had been too far
the snow too deep
the trail impassable or the pool unknown...
What made us abandon our chores?
No, further back.
If we had not passed
on those stairs---going down, going up---
not knowing either but still turning back
simultaneously to glance,
fleeting, questioning...
What made us turn?
No, even further.
If you had not chosen as you chose,
if I had not, though both before,
had accidents of birth and earth, coming and leaving
not converged,
despite free will or because of determinism...
Would we have found us anyway, regardless?
Back further still.
If the other we
had not tilted and whirled and spun
one thrilled, one ill
at the edge of that rough beach--
air fish-salted and clammy close---
then unsteady climbed the steppéd bus
looking down and looking back...
Would later have become next?
No further.
No farther.
Still.
Gently, as in a dance, yes, love.
Only still to part?
Sadly, as in life, yes, love.
With no recourse?
Faintly, as in a dream, none, love.
Yet ever to search?
As in myth, oh love, forever.
Author: E. D. Lloyd-Kimbrel
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