The Man and Me

The Man and Me
Sleeping at night my palm opened flat on his chest,
Warmth feeding warmth, I know we are blessed.
No matter the day’s misunderstandings and blues;
No matter points made and lost;
No matter who thinks who’s the boss;
Sleeping always next to him is the life I would choose.

Re arranging pillows, blankets and such;
Both easy to fire off, yet both easy to touch.
Each unwilling to give way, equal to the end.
The Celt in us both, a marvellous brew,
Stirred and stirring, a wondrous stew.
Sleeping hand to chest our rousing battles mend.

Ah! And give me that fire, pure and unpolished,
And give me the spirit, no argument undemolished,
And give me the wickedness and its play,
Give me the empathy and knowing
Give me the common sense for our growing.
And let us wake hand to chest at the start of the day.

How dear to me is the man who breathes beside me at night?
How dear is the spirit, which gives his eyes their light?
How dear to me is the world we share?
There is no measure I can explain
But that his pain gives me also pain
And that our love is sometimes more than we can bear.

For me he stands, young, fair and clear-eyed as in youth.
For me, the things he feels I know, they are truth.
And I will hold these truths like rare and precious treasure,
For in a shifting sea of easy useless lies
The values of such truths are cherished ties
To the love which lives within the heart which is without measure.

So let me lie for hours, my hand upon his chest,
Thinking on the treasures with which we are blessed.
Such as our children treading out into the world to be,
Carrying the dreams of all our life;
Treasures as sacred as the man and wife
And as sacred as the love which binds the man to me.
Therese Mackay.   April 2003