Now I Wish to Wait
Hear Mary-Jane read this poem
When I was young,
I toyed with others’ hearts
the way new kittens play
with balls of wool, the way
the wind dallies in a chime.
I’m slower now,
but, yes, more graceful, and
I know it is not me
they are talking about.
I remember well,
my outrage sought to take
the moorings from the ground,
the heather from the hill.
I could have taken the willow
from the root,
the limpet from the crag,
the eagle from its young.
Age has taught me
there is no need to rush,
has taught me
I can afford to be generous,
and now I wish to wait.
I used to catch the wind
in caves of ice,
and dreamt of red mountains
and landscapes of rock,
and hollows filled
with water and fading light,
and rain drifting as veils
over the peaks and beyond,
and, in the distances, there was
a warm gleam on the sea.
But, you know,
there is something to be said for
the mild weather and the thought
that precedes one’s actions.
When I was young,
I felt the night wind on my face,
and joy and anguish in my heart.
I climbed the grit stone peaks,
and came down
in blazing sparks of fire.
Now, the moon rises
above the quiet lakes
and there’s no call for praise
I know my place
and look no further.