The spell of you is settling
across the meadow
warm, dewy, gossamer,
the sigh of fog finding rest
and all the chanting voices
swallow themselves
awestruck
at the scale
of the summoning.
Ephemeral and abstract
what stirs inside me
can only be described
by a choir,
by ritual
by outsourcing the outpour
to aspirants and astrologers,
all the breathless, exhausted wonder
of your name.
In the meadow, in the dark,
nobody has to know
that we were once known
to each other.