You
I knew from the moment I saw you.
Told no-one, told only myself
and then silently. Buried your face
in the beaten tundra of my heart.
All seeds start in darkness,
need secrecy to discover what they're carrying,
what they contain. Love spoke
a language I couldn't spell because it spelled
me: I was love's lips and tongue and servant.
The seed conspires with unseen things
and even if we watched through the sides
of a transparent pot
we still wouldn't grasp the magic
of those first roots or shoots. Equally,
I never understood how you came
out of the wastelands and into my home.
If I think of the seed, then I'd say
our meeting was conceived long ago.
It was etched into a parabola of snow.
It was sand in a camel's hoof.
It was in the scent of a badger
when my great-grandmother
walked home one moon-lit evening.
The seed of our meeting had been evolving
for centuries: when you knocked on the door
I opened my soul and said come in.