Before, when sitting on rocks in the middle of a bubbling stream
we had thought of mountain brooks and mountain air
and parting.
So we loved.
Around us were trees, a blanket of black twisting twigs
through which the valley glimpsed
and others’ homes glimmered.
Under us, a mattress of crackling musty leaves.
Some of them clung to us when we left.
around us the city sounds broke like surf-
-the faint collection of other peoples’ talking and doing and
loving.
We loved.
And after…. we whispered.
Why?
No one could hear us,
except perhaps the gnarled, silent trees
and burbling, singing river on its way to being
silenced and made filthy
by you and me and our city.
But we didn’t think of that.
There was no moon; no stars –
only a quiet singing breeze.
We loved.
Other lovers, had they passed us by,
would have been unwelcome.
We wanted no intruders.
This was our valley;
our moment
our memory.
published in Ad Hoc, student Newspaper, Humber College, Rexdale, Ontario; April 22, 1970
