'Stargazing' by Glyn Maxwell

Tomorrow night (12th August) weather permitting, we will sit out in the garden on our loungers to watch the big night of return of the Perseid shower - an annual ritual of ours. 

 This is the sort of thing that can happen.
Stargazing

 The night is fine and dry. It falls and spreads
the cold sky with a million opposites
that, for a spell, seem like a million souls
and soon, more, and then, for what seems a long time,
one. Then of course it spins. What is better to do
than string out over the infinite dead spaces
the ancient beasts and spearmen of the human
mind, and if not the real ones, new ones?

 But try making them clear to one you love,
(whoever is standing by you is one you love 
when pinioned by the stars): you will find it quite
impossible, but like her more for thinking
she sees that constellation.
After the wave of pain, you will turn to her
and, in an instant, change the universe
to a sky you were glad you came out to see.

 This is the act of the descended gods
of every age and creed: to weary of all 
that never ends, to take a human hand
and go back into the house.




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