You

By Alyson Hallett


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.