Smooth-faced Bard

by Stephen Collington

And there’s the ring you left in the bathtub,
high-water mark of the soul, where a tide
in the affairs of men checked its long, swollen ride
and lapsed again, in lines of soap, skin, stubble —
the foam and fury of a sea of trouble
ended, mere sham, a residue of dream,
a figure seen faintly through shoals of steam
but haunting, haunting still... and there’s the rub.

No poems, no puns, no more! you cried, I’ve shaved
my bard, and smooth-faced stooped to kiss me, muse
no more (inspiration failing) and soon,
too soon, alone.
                         And now you lie abed
with a new Patroclus, and grief-mad Ajax scours
the shore, and lyre and cymbal end their tune.