Land and Sky

Her name is Sky. She wears a hippie hat
as blue as eyes can be when full of cloud.
There is a see through dome above her world;
a parasol of plastic, clear like rain.

His name is Land. It is no wonder that
he feels so low; he is about as proud
as dirt. The stone, which is his heart, once hurled
in anger, cannot fit his hand again.

What is there of him in her? She is not
rooted in earth, but floats above it all,
in rarer strata, yet somehow enfolds
the solid evidence of his presence.

And what of her in him? He builds a wall
to climb, to be close to where the sun holds
court, where moonlight rivals her pure essence.
Like stars, she is distant while blazing hot.

But when a star falls, it is just a rock.
The light of her face is not diminished,
nor the weight of her tears denied: She wears
the night in mourning for the prior day.

But he turns and merely pretends he cares.
Gravity bends his knees – neither to pray
nor give praise – in obeisance to the clock:
Without her shadowed dial, time is finished.

In the one place where they meet, ‘forever’
has a meaning, for their journey to each
other is more than a crusade. Her name
is Sky and she reaches for her namesake.

In all the other places – where they break
up and say ‘Oh god please no, not ever
again’ – whether bar, cinema, bed or beach;
his name is Land and he crashes in flame.