You lie bald-headed on a white pillow,
small hands weaving
our tangled world together.
And how your calmness calms us,
as the unseen morphine
slips in.
Your fingers sign a gentle benediction,
and somehow you whisper:
Ithaka’s a great poem.
An ardent affirmation
you have every right to make –
for a fine emotion
has shaped your life, and you too
have paused at markets
to buy sensual perfumes
and rich merchandise: mother of pearl,
coral, amber, ebony,
my spiral shell from Norfolk.
And you have lingered on the quayside
conversing with holy fools,
waiting for the tide to turn.
Pray that the journey is long
full of adventure,
full of discovery.