She was my rich hilled and side cliffed woman
whose shapes I knew so well,
like the green waves of home.
We had babes together
tucked into wool-lined cots under a safe hedge,
and solstices smiled on us with breaths of wind
on a still night.
And you stole her
As friends sometimes do.
In another time
I would have split you forehead to pelvis
a final deep swing of family heritage
a bitter two-handed sword
graced by our strong, down-armed rising rage,
teeth clenched, hard staring eyes,
and a wild shout of rock splitting triumph,
after you had slipped that thin sparkling grey knife
between my ribs.
But now I am older looking back,
and its true I had lost her specific person earlier
not realizing, loving her in general
with warm intense and a genuine habit
and not a hint, poor man,
from overwork that this was so.
You gave her something,