Martin Robertson

Now and Then


When shall we meet again?  We do not know

—can only dress our longing thought in dream,

weak tissue woven

of past and hope, of echo left on eye,

on ear, on parted flesh.  All dreams.  But even

moments of dream are moments passing—time

moves to our meeting with the starting, slow,

hesitant, eager, delicate approach

of a child who barefoot down a pebble beach

makes for the sea.