I saw you there

in the march,

coming in and out,

stepping well with the lush thrumming 

of so many 

waves;

Your face, stoned, battle-made,

rocking like a pool in the storm, 

and as blued, and as white; Why

Were you there?

We were supposed

to make for the outskirts, run,

carry on to the sunset sitting on the clouds,

deepening to night. 

And yet I find you in town square,

in wine wools and braids,

Drumming for the cavalcade

as if you dreamt it,

as if you dreamt for lion’s mane

instead of roses,

and hoped I would wait.