I spent my honeymoon in the woods
Where the high Falls of the
Made Wordsworthian settlers think
Of something smaller they'd left behind
The water's pounding holds a ghostly
Fiddle music. It sings about
The Clearances, the Forty-five...
And swallows the crack of the long rifles,
The hatchet's swipe as the exiles drove
A flint-age, oral culture
Backwards, with the timber-line.
Rivers ingest our human sorrows,
Rendering down our misery
To the inhuman pathos of Nature.
Shut in a cabin among the pines,
We worked at love, and memory shows
Her small, peaked face confronting mine,
Tightened in angry determination
To make a go of what she loathed,
Frigging me in the shower. Its jets
Needled our slack, reluctant flesh
And I laughed- not, as she thought, at her
But with her- at a brave try,
Hurting inside to think my love
Might never meet an unforced response.
Water rilled down her breasts and made
Her long hair cling like river weed.
And that first night I thought there were three
Souls in that cabin; she and I and ...
Was it the Falls with its Celtic voices
That summoned up that unseen stranger,
Old as stone, and the yellow lichen,
Dark and ravishing as the woods,
Holding me in her saning aura
While in a separate world of pain
My wife stirred as the same defender
Entered her dream? I kept waking;
Still we were three. The night resounded,
Filled with the voices of the Falls.
It was as if the Woman spoke,
"Lay aside your fear, your rage;.
You are timed but I am always;
Rest in me. My tourbillons
Unmake your troubles, and your true love
Waits with me. I smoothed those fiddles
Into history's wall of music,
Reconciling killer and killed
In one amazing, timeless cry."