the evening like a winding stair

Safely back in Leeds and on new computer. Not looking forward to work tomorrow. Still. It was a lovely weekend.

Will be most amused if in the next episode of Doctor Who it turns out that Donna's mother is the disguised/chameleon-arched/whatevered Time Lord who has been unconsciously hiding all this time. Oh, come on. It'd be neat.

I'm still waiting for a new copy of Microsoft Office to arrive, which slows down on writing stuff. Ah well, there's always Notepad.

---

It was the second night of May,
and stars were budding in the sky,
when I rose up from where I lay
and left my body in its bed,
and left my bed and house behind,
and mounted quiet and unseen
the evening like a winding stair
and ventured forth upon the air.

And not to chase the fleeing day
into the kingdom of the dead,
nor birds of paradise to hunt,
nor gather flowers of the rain,
but it was you I meant to find,
O white and black, O dark and fair,
to see you for a fragile hour
asleep and dreaming in your bower.

I flying tasted every land
along the thin skin of my soul:
I soared above the snowy peaks,
the badlands dark and harsh as lye,
the grassy plains where horses drum,
and worn green hills as old as sleep,
and even to the bitter sea
that long has parted you and me.

And over golden Ambarey,
that tastes of spices and the sun,
and over Glar whose wine is sweet,
and over Mellan's chilly sound.
Above the plains that taste of chalk
I flew beneath the sleepless Bear;
to rugged Markrath thus I came
where flowers tremble with your name.

Descending through the spicy air
I swooped along the Rath's dark banks
and found your village on the hill,
and in the village found your house,
and found your window in the wall,
and through the window to your room
like moonlight thin and cold I flew,
and lastly through the bed to you.

I saw you lying on the sheets,
with darkness hidden in your eyes,
your open fingers spilling dreams.
The moon fell white along your arms
and lost itself within your breast,
and starlight sparkled on your lips
and night upon your hair lay deep
and all your body soft with sleep.

And all my pains had been for naught;
Your body you had left behind.
And ventured out upon the air,
And you were gone, I know not where.

-- from The Interior Life, Katherine Blake