The Myth of Narcissus

No stomach for life; the thing I held, most dear,
snatched away, as a rubber-ring from a child
learning to swim.

Grief weighed me down – hung heavy in the air
as clouds before a storm; an obesity
of longing, and self-pity.

This morning’s rain turning to snow, I strolled
‘our hill’; a rogue narcissus, punching its way on through
a clump of trenchant goose-grass. Life

like the face of a long-lost one, cradled in my hands,
in the thin, March air; pale, pouted lips –
each breath, warming my palms,

no freckled cheeks, no pert, snub nose – no
dove-grey eyes, yet still I had to say, ‘Yes,’ to life.
I will take you as you come; love you, again.