'TO JOHN', by Godfrey Green

Your voice is a lullaby.
You stroke the purring cats you nurture
and watch from the window,
as once you watched me
and nursed my image through dreams
till at dawn you christened my beauty.
Hovering angel on my journeys,
you were my rabbit foot,
fingering holy chains and beads.
You are my fuzzy teddy I love to pet,
though I fear the heat and damp.
I can see you stumbling between trees,
lugging bright blocks, stones of quiet;
seeking relief from the whining,
pecking of the great mother bird.
But all your dragons live in depths;
they rumble boisterously through your bowels.
As long as you make them real, they will howl.
To think that you, the buffeted,
would be my quiet corner!
Yes, I am your chosen; my gangling bones,
my sensuous lips, my frightened eyes.
You play in my sandbox, but serenely
store your vision of sugar plums.
All the crosses I assembled and erected—
you bore—even the spear.
Welcome, my friend.

Photography by Marina Leonova